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HEAVY METAL 



JANUARY 1984 



VOL. VII NO. 10 




CONTENTS 



Dossier, edited by Lou Stathis, 4 

Ranxerox in New York, by Tamburini. Illustrated by Liberatore, 12 

Tex Arcana, by John Findley, 21 



Erotica par Barbe, by Barbe, 29 



Rebel with a Cause, by Dick Matena, 33 



June 2050, by Len Wein. Illustrated by Tom Yeates, 43 



1992, by Segrelles, 44 



Help Wanted, by Murad Gumen, 52 



The Sentinel, by Arthur C. Clarke. Illustrated by Lebbeus Woods, 53 



Bird Dust, by Caza, 57 



I'm Age, by Jeff Jones, 67 



Alien in New York, by Byron Preiss. Illustrated by Alex Nino, 69 



Chain Mail, 75 



HM's Star Dissections, by Drew Friedman, 76 



My Vampires: A Memoir, by David Black. Illustrations by Randall Enos, 77 



Valentina the Pirate, by Crepax, 82 



Rock Opera, by Rod Kierkegaard, Jr., 92 



The Bus, by Paul Kirchner, 96 



Coming, 96 



Cover, by Mitch O'Connell 



"Bird Dust," by Caza is © Metal Hurlant, France. All rights reserved. 

"1 992," by Segrelles is © Norma, Barcelona, Spain. Reprinted with permission. 

"Ranxerox in New York," by Tamburini and Liberatore is © Albin Michel, France. All rights reserved. 

All other copyrights are held by individual artists, agents, and/or representatives. 




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Elmore Leonard: more 
Richard Pry or than 
Robert Ludlum? 

Photo by: Joan Leonard 



LEONARD DA VINCI 



I here's a certain type of 
writing that is considered quin- 
fessentially American in pop- 
ular fiction: a lean, vivid vet 
understated prose, almost tran- 
scendentally journalistic, unerr- 
ingly naturalistic in pace and 
tone, true in its representation 
of dialogue. (Hemlngway- 
esque, style blanc, hard-boiled 
. , . critical terms which tend to 
spatter craftsmanship with pre- 
tense.) It reads deceptively 
simply; it's very hard to do. 
Ladies and gentlemen, the 
Detroit-based thriller writer, 
Elmore Leonard: "I really 
enjoy writing books now; it used 
to be such a chore — I think it is 
for everybody— but lately. In 
the last few years, I think I finally 
know what my sound is." He's 
been at it professionally for 
more than twenty-five years. 

!n recent months, I've read 
an even dozen novels by 
Leonard— about half his total 
output, among them a western 
— and let me clue you in: I'm 
no masochist — although none 
have failed to scare me shitless. 
Since Donald Westlake 
stopped writing as Richard 
Stark, no other American has 
handled the crime novel with 
such skill, intensity, ond humor. 
Leonard, to boot, has escaped 
Westlake's wholly undeserved 
out-of-print doom: his publish- 
er. Arbor House, works at selling 
his books [Stick and LaBrava 
are this year's models); and 
Avon Books is busily reprinting 
Fifty-Two Pickup (1974), Un- 
known Man Ho. 89 (1977), City 
Primeval: High Noon In De- 
troit (1960), Split Images 
(1981), and Cot Chaser (1982) 
— this last, an especial pisser. 
Moreover, Stick is currently 
being filmed in Miami by Burt 
Reynolds (in the title role, 
natch) from Leonard's own 
screenplay; and all of his 1980's 
fiction cited above are pres- 
ently under option. 



What makes suspense novels 
so difficult to write about— un- 
less they're tied to a particular 
period everyone knows about, 
like World War II— is what 
makes them a delight to read; 
their essential unpredictability. 
This is acutely the case with 
Leonard's work, as well as how 
he works: "I do a first draft that I 
rewrite constantly because I 
never know how ifs gonna end; 
I don't want to know. I want the 
story to come out of the peo- 
ple, and I don't want to force 
them to do anything. My best 
characters are the ones I really 
didn't plan ahead of time . . . 
Well, Jiggs Scully was one, in 
Cat Chaser. He was going to 
be a very minor character. Or in 
Split Images, Walter Kouza: he 
didn't even have a name in his 
first scene; and Walter started 
to talk and I thought, my God, I 
gotta use this guy. Whenever I 
saw one of their scenes coming 
up I had nothing to worry 
about, 'cause these guys just 
talk" — Leonard laughs — "you 
couldn't shut them up." 

"There are scenes, as I start to 
write them, where I think I know 
whafs gonna happen, and 
something entirely different 
happens." Here he cites key 
scenes from his work and his in- 
clination to push off in the most 
twisted direction. "Ifs funny to 
me when I read a reviewer who 
says Well, I knew three chap- 
ters before the end what was 
going to happen'— he knew 
more than I did. But really, ifs 
not that important to me. I'm 
not trying to get a surprise; I 
want a real natural ending. I 
want the reader to say, Yes, of 
course, thof s the way ifs gotta 
be'— but still want to turn pages 
to see it happen." Because of 
his sharply-honed improvisa- 
tional approach, Leonard Is in 
many ways more akin to some- 
one like Richard Pryor than he 
ever could be to, say, Robert 





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Ludium. As with Pryor's famed 
heart attack routine, the reader 
is painfully aware of mortality in 
Leonard's work, especially his 
heroes', Regular Joes all. 
(There's one of his books 
wherein, although a score of 
people are blown away, his 
hero, love interest, and heavies 
survive— the last thing one 
would have expected, but it 
works chillingly.) 

Leonard also peppers his 
novels with contemporary ref- 
erences that, rather than date 
his stories, aid in producing a 
thematic, self-reflective gestalt 
The Reagan assassination at- 
tempt occurs during the time a 
boyish millionaire plays at the 
same sort of thing in Split 
Images. Warren Oates's death 
weirds out the unassuming titie 
character of Stick, who doesn't 
hear about it until his prison 
release at the book's begin- 
ning, and sets the tone for a 
deadly comedy of manners in 
which keeping one's cool 
proves a vital survival trait. 
Three other celebrity obituaries 
neatly tie together in LaBrava, 
where the iife of an ex-Secret 
Service agent (turned photo- 
grapher) dovetails with that of 
his favorite film noir queen — 
Leonard's slyest mastermix yet. 

Aside from his deadpan hu- 
mor and funky, urban sensibility 
(ask Leonard how he research- 
es his westerns. "I use Arizona 
Highways magazine for the 
description. And the nice thing 
is, the captions will tell you what 
the flora is. You could be out 



there rooming the desert, you 
wouldn't know one plant from 
another."), it is ultimately 
Leonard's use of criminality to 
cut a sure swath through the 
American scene that makes his 
work invaluable beyond its 
generic requirements. (Doesn't 
read much in his field, either: 
proclaiming an early debt to 
both John D. MacDonald and 
Hemingway, Leonard praises 
Raymond Carver, Jim Harrison, 
Bobbie Ann Mason, and William 
Kennedy as his current favor- 
ites.) Flannery O'Connor once 
said something to the effect 
that a good writer always writes 
about the entire world — 
whether, one assumes, the 
immediate concerns range 
from small town life to a diplo- 
mafs earache, or a transatlan- 
tic flight. For his part, Elmore 
Leonard has cunningly spliced 
a world in which social oppo- 
sifes co-exist: where cops and 
ex-cons slum with the well-to- 
do; where everyday people 
are forced to turn extraordinary 
to deal one-on-one with their 
blackmailers and extorters; and 
where the intense nastiness of 
violent expediency barely 
holds its own in conflict with the 
desire to live decently, without 
major hassles. That he con- 
sciously attempts this, while 
doing a number on one's pulse, 
is testament enough to Leon- 
ard's ambition; that he suc- 
ceeds with such apparent 
effortlessness speaks only of his 
brilliance. 

— Robert Morales 



WOOLRICH 
AND FAMOUS 



#%t night, alone, put your 
hands on a railroad track and 
feel the distant pulse of an un- 
seen power increasing in in- 
tensity, and finally erupting out 
of the blackness, overwhelming 
you at a lightning velocity. Or 
for the same effect, open to 



page one of a Cornell Wool- 
rich novel. 

Such labels as "crime fiction," 
or "mystery," or "psychological 
suspense" just aren't good 
enough for this writer's work — 
they ignore his bleak pes- 
simism, his violent, fever-heat 
emotionalism, his poetry of the 



night. In the black Woolrich 
universe, governed by odd 
twists of fate and bizarre coinci- 
dences, desperate characters 
clockrace wildly to beat the 
countdown of chance events. 
Fear eats at the soul, and the 
night reveals muffled cries of 
loneliness and despair. 

Woolrich's people are 
doomed, trapped in city 
honeycombs where "God . . . 
ordered the grave for all of us." 
Trapped, in fact, like Woolrich 
himself, who wrote, "I was born 
to be solitary, and I liked it that 
way." A native New Yorker, 
Woolrich spent his childhood in 
Mexico, returning to NYC to 
study journalism and creative 
writing at Columbia University. 
He left school to pursue writing 
full-time, and shortly thereafter 
moved to Hollywood, where, in 
1930, he married twenty-year- 
old Gloria Blackton (daughter 
of movie pioneer J. Stuart 
Blackton). The marriage, later 
annulled, lasted only a few 
weeks. Woolrich, a homosexual 
who chose to cover the water- 
front wearing a sailor suit he 
kept in a locked suitcase, re- 
turned to New York to spend 
the next twenty-seven years 
trapped in a love/hate rela- 
tionship with his domineering 
mother. 

In 1934, with six published 
mainstream novels to his credit, 
yet deeply in debt, Woolrich 
began writing for the pulps. Be- 
ginning in 1940, with The Bride 
Wore Black, he moved on to 
hardbacks and his Block series 
of classic suspense novels: The 
Black Curtain (1941), Black 
Alibi (1942), The Black Angel 



(1943), The Black Path of Fear 
(1944), and Rendezvous In 

Black (1948). Woolrich stories 
and novels were adapted into 
dozens of radio/TV dramas, in- 
cluding "Four O'Clock" (Sus- 
picion, 9/30/57), cited by 
Francis Nevins as "perhaps the 
most totally suspenseful film 
Hitchcock has ever directed." 
Hitchcock's classic Rear Win- 
dow (1954 — recently returned 
to the screen after a lengthy 
absence) was also adapted 
from Woolrich, who received 
only $600 for the story rights 
and wasn't even invited to the 
premiere. 

Admired by everyone from 
Chandler to Bradbury, Wool- 
rich's influence was incal- 
culable. There are thirty-two 
Woolrich-based movies (in- 
cluding the current French film 
/ Married a Shadow, adapted 
from / Married a Dead Man), 
and a film nolr chronology re- 
veals him as the central figure 
lurking behind that movement. 
In comics, he not only in- 
fluenced Jules Feiffer's "Spirit" 
scripts, but also EC, notably via 
scripter-artist Johnny Craig. 

Some see Woolrich at the top 
of the heap. Harlan Ellison, who 
wrote an homage story ("Tired 
Old Man," in No Doors, No Win- 
dows], stated flatly, ". . . Neither 
Hammett nor Chandler did to 
me what that old man Woolrich 
did." Culture critic Foster Hirsch 
agrees, calling Woolrich "... A 
better storyteller than Hammett 
or Chandler, and a master at 
building and sustaining ten- 
sion." And yet, for decades, 
Woolrich remained a shadowy 
figure of American literature. 



Cornell Woolrich 
without his sailor suit. 




available in recent years only in 
three hard-to-flnd story collec- 
tions— Nlghtwebs [Avon, 1971), 
Angels of Darkness (Mysteri- 
ous Press, 1978), and The Fan- 
tastic Stories of Cornell 
Woolrich (Southern Illinois 
University Press. 1981). But now, 
courtesy of Ballantine Books, his 
novels are back, featuring 
Laurence Schwinger's atmos- 
pheric, Hopper-like cover illus- 
trations framed beneath the 
author's name in red neon. Ifs 
been a long wait. Too long. 

After his mother's death in 
1957, Woolrich began a down- 
hill race. Diabetic and alcohol- 
ic, he neglected a gangrenous 
foot until his leg had to be 
amputated. When his number 
came up in 1968, he was a 
millionaire— but he hod no 
close personal friends and no 
survivors. Apart from his doctor 



and a few estate-handlers, only 
a half-dozen or so writers and 
editors attended his funeral, 
and the New York Times obit 
misspelled his name twice. 

In 1977 Ellison wrote, ". . . No 
one should live so dark a life as 
the one through which Cornell 
Woolrich moved, and leave be- 
hind such an enduring legacy, 
and not be remembered." 

In France they never forgot 
him. Over here, Woolrich is be- 
ginning to move out of the 
shadows. 

At last. 

— Bhob 



[Angels of Darkness, Mysterious 
Press, 129 West 56th St., NYC, NY 
10019. The Fantastic Stories of 
Cornell Woolrich, Southern 
Illinois University Press, Box 3697, 
Carbondale, Illinois 62901.) 



SHAMUS SHOWDOWN 



In the post-Marlowe era, 
what's a poor shamus to do? Ifs 
been a long time sincethe 
world was as black-and-white 
as it was for Chandler's detec- 
tive. There's too much gray in 
the eighties, and It takes a dif- 
ferent kind of man — often 
working from a completely 
different milieu— to sort it out. 
Enter Stephen Greenleaf and 
Robert Parker, two not-yusf- 
hardboiled writers who con- 
front this quandary; Parker is by 
far the most-hyped of the new 
breed (Dell has recently re- 
issued all of his dozen books 
with uniform packaging), but I'll 
take Greenleaf. 

His John Marshall Tanner of 
San Francisco is an ex-lawyer 
(read: educated, familiar with 
affluence) who's soured on the 
judicial system. This doesn't 
mean he hasn't a finely-tuned 
moral sense; Tanner halls from 
a small Iowa farm town— the 
setting for his recent Fatal 
Obsession (Dial) — and has the 



most traditional values of any 
of the current batch of dicks. 
This could make his work that 
much harder, because Tanner 
often must deal with Bay Area 
types whose moral codes are 
so "modern," so relative, that 
they are in fact amoral. These 
include Nader-type activists 
who hide dirty secrets under 
squeaky-clean exteriors, drug- 
gies who've become unknow- 
ing pawns in their own games, 
Vietnam vets whose lives are 
studies in decay. To get his job 
done, Tanner often has to know 
subjects once thought too 
highfalutin for the private eye; 
he also has to know how to get 
along with the hoi polloi in the 
street. In the end, ifs his solid, 
small-town sense of ethics that 
provides the compass Tanner 
needs to sort out so much con- 
flicting input. And though he's 
been known to wax a little too 
purple here and there, Green- 
leaf writes classic California 
whodunits (three previous ef- 
forts in Ballantine pbs include: 



Grove Error, Death Bed, and 
State's Evidence), weaving 
taut, credible stories that fit the 
traditional mold even as they 
stare down the modern world. 

Parker's Spenser (no first 
name) is an ex-boxer and ex- 
cop from Boston. In fact, 
Spenser ("Thafs with an s, like 
the English poet") Is so studious 
about personifying the Thor- 
oughly Modern Man that he 
probably couldn't have come 
from any place else. He jogs 
and works out on the Nautilus; 
quotes Gerard Manley Hopkins, 
Hobbes, and too many others. 
He struggles to maintain an 
egalitarian relationship with his 
girl friend, a child psychologist. 
The question is: do you want the 
leader of a men's Conscious- 
ness Raising group as your Pi? 
Well, Spenser does get the job 
done — often in unorthodox 
ways. In Ceremony, he locates 
the teenage girl he's been 
seeking in Boston's sex district, 
decides she's better off as a 
call girf than back with her 



thoughtless parents, and ar- 
ranges through a madam 
friend to place her in a toney 
Manhattan brothel. Spenser 
agonizes over Right and Wrong 
at the drop of an issue, though 
when he does have to act fast, 
he reverts to the time-honored 
fists and heavy artillery [which, 
of course, leads to even more 
agonizing afterwards). The 
Widening Gyro (Delacorte). 
Parker's latest, is typical in that it 
doesn't pose a mystery so 
much as it sets up a problem 
and then follows Spenser 
through to his solution; Parker's 
stories are negligible, little 
more than handles on which 
he and Spenser hang their 
cleverness. These two are like 
the smug, insecure party guest 
who interrupts every conversa- 
tion to show how much more 
he knows about the subject at 
hand. Ultimately, Parker writes 
amusing little detective novels 
for people who don't really like 
detective novels. 

— John Morthland 



Two mega-talented 
members of multi- 
monied Duran Duran 
cavort on a Sri Lanka 
beach, occasionally 
taking time to film their 
new Russell Mulcahy- 
directed video for "Save 
a Prayer." 



Quick: Identify the 
dinosaur rocker in this 
crowd of grinning MTV 
VJs (hint: he looks a bit 
dazed and confused). 





Kock 'n' roll and TV may 
have grown up together, but 
they never were close com- 
panions. The first "rock videos" 
(like the clips the Beatles and 
Stones used to send American 
television) never caught on, 
probably because the bands 
weren't live. We had Archies- 
itis — the fear of fake bands. But 
now, along with tapes that 
back bands onstage, unper- 
formable multi-track records, 
and dance club DJs fiddling 
with turntables, the camera has 
come to be accepted with this 
other new technology; rock 
and TV have finally joined 
forces. 

MTV became the unfortu- 
nate focal point of rock video 
through a media blitz compa- 



rable to herpes, Jedi, and AIDS. 
As rock video's sole mass forum, 
dictating the state of the art 
was effortless and MTVs taste 
was clear: the throbbing, quick- 
cut look thaf s synonymous with 
designer jean ads. And since all 
record companies now want 
(and think their bands need) 
MTV exposure, they're in the 
position to restrict video artists 
(the opposite of what they're 
supposed to be doing). Even 
Doliy Parton's video looks like a 
Devo/Pepsi Generation night- 
mare — totally incongruous with 
her sound. MTV was no doubt a 
pioneer and drew attention to 
a valuable new art form, but 
maybe rock and TVs first mar- 
riage isn't the best. 

There's no shortage of Read- 
er's Digest condensed MTVs 



elsewhere on the dial. Both 
HBO and Cinemax have rock 
video segments, where the 
image of a gyrating Michael 
Jackson will be drummed into 
your dreams. A blessedly short- 
lived hybrid called "We're 
Dancln'" actually superim- 
posed writhing teenagers In 
front of videos. (Dick Clark 
never reduced his teens to that, 
although even "Bandstand" 
now has a weekly video.) 

NBC has made the non- 
cable network breakthrough 
with "Friday Night Videos," a 
late-night ninety-minute pro- 
gram that will strike a famiiiar 
note to MTV veterans. Ifs quite 
baldly "MTVs Top Ten," but with 
less time to fill they must be 
more discriminate — so you 
don't have to watch for hours 



(and expose yourself to a lot 
that, believe me, you don't 
want to see) to catch the 
videos people are talking 
about. 

Yes, there's a lot of video in 
rock, but is any of the spirit of 
rock in video 1 ? 

Lisa Robinson— the rock n' 
roll Rona Barrett — has been 
hurling herself into limos and 
blowing the locks off dressing 
room doors for everything from 
Creem to the New York Post. 
(She is perhaps best known for 
loaning Mick Jogger her 
panties when he lost his jock- 
strap before a concert.) As host 
of USA cable's nightly "Radio 
1990," she has at last found her 
true calling. Robinson has cor- 
rected problems that cripple 
the MTV format— watching the 
videos repeatedly and without 
interruption is numbing. Also, 
MTV doesn't serve warning 
when cutting from a good 
video to something like Def 
Leppard, testing your couch- 
to-volume-control speed. By 
linking the videos with related 
new items and interviews, 
Robinson snaps you back now 
and then and also gives each 
artist (and video) individuality, 
thus injecting some sense into 
her half hour. 

Tear gas couldn't mar Robin- 
son's enthusiasm; she ts so alive 
with the sheer joy of being on 
television that she makes MTVs 
Martha Quinn look luded out. 
This could have been "Enter- 
tainment Tonight" meets Roll- 
ing Stone, but her journaiistic 
style has much more in com- 
mon with Britain's Face maga- 
zine — a high emphasis on the 
Pop sophistication of new 
music. While still managing to 
show at least thirty videos a 
week, Robinson brings you "the 
inside stories" (sound familiar?) 
from the world of rock, video, 
fashion, movies, books, and 
international nightlife, all the 
while leaning into the camera 
as if to say, "Can we talk?" 

— Steven Maloff 



ZZ Top display the latest 
in bib fashion. 



"Even Dolly 
Parton's video looks 
like a Devo/Pepsi 
Generation night- 
mare " 




VIDEO D. 



Ifs gotten so I can't even 
turn on my fucking TV anymore. 
Rock video is everywhere. MTV 
was only the beginning — now 
there's WTBS's "Night Tracks" 
and USA's "Nightf light," HBO's 
"Video Jukebox," and NBC's 
"Friday Night Videos." Big 
media has made up its mind 
and there's no escape from 
rock-in-the-box. Even the Sep- 
tember HM had eight pages 
celebrating it all — where was 
Moebius when I really needed 
him? 

Whether you love it or leave 
it — or, like me, do both at 
once — rock video has created 
its own cathode-ray "Twilight 
Zone" of sight, of sound, and of 
mind. And like leopard skin 
pants and Motown party cas- 
settes, its already mass-duped 
its own cliches. Here are ten of 
the most obnoxious. 

1. Ifs all a dream. The video- 
within-the-video, the world- 
within-the -world. We're post- 
post-modern now; not even a 
fantasy is really a fantasy any- 
more. 

2. New wave girls in raunch- 
metal vid-clips: You mean that 
sleek bitch really can't decide 
between twerpy Neil Schon 
and bald Jan Hammer? 

3. Women in men's jobs: Of 
course, those gals don't really 
drive trucks or pump Getty 
unleaded— not the 5'10" limey 
blondes with Vivien Westwood 
clothes and unsmeared 
makeup. 

4. Film school film noir. Rain- 
slicked asphalt two lone head- 
lights roll toward the camera; o 
thin, young, white man (Frank 
Sinatra the Seventh] stands on 
a half-lit street corner and lights 
a Camel. The synths swell. The 
wind blows. 

5. Sexist rock star thugs de- 
stroy property: "ibu'd think these 



so-called musicians do nothing 
all day but snort coke and trash 
their girl friends' dressers. 

6. Nouvelle cinemascope: 
Thick black lines frame the Sony 
screen — the Russell Mulcahy 
drive-in effect ... cut to Cannes 
'84. 

7. Cheap video FX: Tangerine 
skies and lavender rivers, 
twelve David Byrnes float in a 
chroma-key sea. Images flip 
like baseball cards— the 
Ouantel hangover. 



8. Dancin' in the street: No 
matter how hard you work for 
the money, Broadway's just a 
kick-step away. After all, show- 
biz dreams are the ultimate 
Soma. 

9. Bungle in the jungle: Every- 
one's following Bwana Mulcahy 
to some exotic locale— Sri 
Lanka, Tibet, the Bronx. When 
will the natives get restless? 

10. Duran Duran. 

—Stuart Cohn 



CONFESSIONS OF AN 
MTV ADDICT 



womebody help me, I can't 
seem to leave my apartment. 
I'm getting sluggish. My atten- 
tion span is steadily disintegrat- 
ing. And I've been having these 
bizarre, colorful daydreams 
that seem so real — and they 
only last three or four minutes. 
They're frightening— full of 
weird sexual fantasies, vio- 
lence, leather and chains, 
overblown emotions of all 
kinds, dnd totally primordial, 
regressive images. No matter 
what I do, they don't seem to 
stop. 

I've given up on print — nov- 
els, poetry- even fashion maga- 
zines and junk reading. It takes 
too long. I never go to the 
movies any more, and I can't 
eat — except in front of the TV. 
We're talking full-fiedged ad- 
diction here, but with a brand 
new hook that goes straight for 
the gut— MTV. Maybe MTV 
doesn't compare to the narcot- 
ics of the last two decades: pot 
and psychedelics in the sixties, 
love (according to Bryan Ferry) 
in the early seventies, money in 
the late seventies. But my mon- 
ey's on it as the opiate of the 
eighties — ifs already got my 
mind. The high thafs got radio 
stations sedated, record execs 
flying (you thought that was 
coke?), and artists pemanently 



dilated has also got Its viewers 
thoroughly anaesthetized. And 
guess what? Its founders didn't 
mean to do it (but then ail 
pushers are originally well- 
meaning); they just wanted to 
make some bucks off a few 
kids. 

It was just as surprising to 
MTVs honchos as to everyone 
else that almost half of MTVs 
viewership is between the ages 
of twenty-four and forty. They 
are a very sophisticated, well- 
read, imaginative, and monied 
lot — -the kind of over-bred cli- 
entele that the sixties left with a 
permanent taste for escapism, 
and consequently, stimulation 
of any kind. 

If you don't think ifs danger- 
ous enough to cause you dam- 
age, you're already in phase 
one — you've lost the facility to 
analyze. After that, motor activ- 
ity slips— the ability to change 
the channel, and the initiative 
to even bother. Soon, you'll find 
your aesthetfcs (that you've 
so prided yourself on) have 
altered— first subtlely, then, 
dramatically. Say you used to 
be a Keats scholar, loved to 
watch performance art, in- 
dulged In the most extreme 
musics from hardcore to avant- 
dissonance. Post-exposure, you 
now find you actually tike 
Journey (much to your embar- 



rassment), Michael Bolton, Kan- 
sas, Saga, and ZZ Top. Weil, 
maybe "like" isn't the right 
word— but to catch yourself 
humming along with the songs, 
reluctantly tapping your feet, 
repeating the lyrics later on, 
even imagining you relate to 
them. And somehow, you find 
yourself in enormous arenas 
among the down-vested 
hordes, getting off on these 
dinosaurs. Your smug dissenter's 
taste has gone the way of the 
common denominator. Isn't 
rock'n'roll supposed to be 
about subversion? MTVs rota- 
tion policy has the subtle re- 
lentlessness of Chinese water 
torture— five Kansas or Duran 
Duran videos in eight hours, 
and you're in their pocket, 

Look what happened to me: 
my taste in visual aesthetics has 
all but bitten the dust. I woke up 
one morning and found myself 
thinking Robert Plant and Bryan 
Adams attractive— and discov- 
ered that rape, pillage, and 
females dancing in chains and 
lingerie no longer offended me 
(particularly when done to a 
catchy electronic beat). That 
MTVs selection of rock videos 
has set feminism back thirty 
years is not news. But we're 
learning that prolonged expo- 
sure is Freud ianly powerful 
enough to radically alter your 
definitions of sexuality (I've 
seen it leave even the least 
macho men longing for Pat 
Benatar), All It takes is a mini- 
mum of fake flash— lots of col- 
or, quick-cut images, cliched 
tricky effects, and the tiniest 
hint of plot (narrative or non, 
makes no difference), and the 
imagination is off and racing. 

Is it any wonder that so many 
MTV casualties are fifties' kids? 
For them (us), TV and rock'n'roll 
defined the world, so a union of 
the two (Vusic? Vuzak?) thafs 
never-ending can't be any- 
thing but too comforting. Why 
try to progress intellectually? 
MTVs got everything — drama, 
passion, characters, sex, danc- 
ing, exaltation, death with a 



"My money's on 
MTV as the opiate of 
the eighties." 

good beat. Junkies like to get 
everything from one source. If 
one stopped for a minute to 
compare real life to rock 
videos, like we used to do with 
Hollywood, the world would 
come up short (no contest). Ifs 
too late for me; every love af- 
fair looks like ABC's "Poison 
Arrow" video, and no song with- 
out pictures can get to me. 

A warning to. anyone with 
similar symptoms in the early 
stages of manifestation: hating 
TV Is not enough to save you. 
This is a different animal. You 
will need to be completely de- 
programmed. If you think cut- 
ting off cable cold turkey will 



Tim Leary (with can of 
his second favorite drug) 
and G. Gordon Liddy (on 
the nod). 



work, forget it. You'll just wind up 
watching at your friend's house, 
anyway. Real drugs are not rec- 
ommended as possible side- 
tracking; when taken with MTV, 
they act as catalyst, and the 
cathode rays enter your mind's 
eye alf the quicker. The only 
known cures to date are ex- 
tremely large doses of Dosto- 
evski and German films, or re- 
peated exposure to the sounds 
of Black Flag, Captain Beef- 
heart, or Xenakis at full volume. 
Aesthetes and elitists are cur- 
rently experimenting full time 
with new cures. As for me — I 
want my MTV. 

—Merle Ginsberg 



GIRL WATCHING 



Vfn one hand, an hour- 
long video documentary which 
chronicles the "girl group" phe- 
nomenon of the early sixties is 
hard to pick nits with: clips of 
the Ronettes, the Blossoms, the 
Exciters, and many other exam- 
ples of the genre are easy to 
watch and listen to. But — to 
play devil's advocate— much 
of Girl Groups (MGM/UA) is 
told strictly from the viewpoint 
of Ellie Greenwich (admittedly 
an expert), with a closed eye to 
the Philadelphia scene [the Or- 
lons, Dee Dee Sharp, Claudine 
Clark, and Patti Labelle and the 
Slue-Bells). The Phil Spector 
Story is given much reverence 
but little in-depth coverage, 
and altogether too much time 
is spent on the Supremes. One 
would guess the makers of Girl 
Groups were limited tremen- 
dously by which clips they had 
access to — most are taken 
from the old "Shindig!" TV 
show — thus accounting for the 
more glaring exclusions. What- 
ever its lapses, the video does 
have its basic taste and sensi- 
bilities in order, and the end- 
to-end barrage of this musi- 
cally fertile period can't help 
but be overwhelming. 

Proper credit is given to the 
two singers acknowledged as 



initiators of the sound— the 
Chantels' Arlene Smith and 
Specfor's Darlene Love— but 
whereas Spector gets a phe- 
nomenal buildup (which even 
though deserved, gets ridic- 
ulous), his predecessor Richard 
Barrett isn't even mentioned. 
This is like doing a story about 
Keith Richards without mention- 
ing Chuck Berry, as the Wall of 
Sound didn't exactly emerge 
from a vacuum. Granted, Girl 
Groups tries to cover a lot of 
territory in just over an hour, but 
it seems much interesting 
material has been sacrificed in 
fovor of a lengthy interview with 
the Supremes' Mary Wilson, 
whose story — albeit interesting 
— doesn't have much to contri- 
bute to the whole picture. 

Considering that Alan Bet- 
rock's similarly titled book was 
far more extensive in its 
coverage of primarily the same 
territory, one would heartily 
recommend it as a companion 
to the video. And maybe some- 
body will do a whole Phil 
Spector Story, or Whatever 
Happened to Brenda Reid, or 
any of the other things you can 
do with girl groups beyond 
splicing together a bunch of 
killer clips. 

— Jon and Sally Tiven 




idies and gentlemen! 
Children of all ages! Get ready 
for the media circus of the 
eighties! Watch the cop who 
bungled Watergate and de- 
stroyed Tricky Dick meet the 
guru of those way-out, wacky, 
drug-soaked sixties in a horn- 
locking, wit-battling debate to 
end all debates! Thafs right, G. 
Gordon Llddy and Timothy 
Leary — who last crossed paths 
almost two decades ago when 
the former arrested the latter at 
his Millbrook funny farm — are 
at it again, for our amusement 
and their enrichment! If you 
missed this spectacular duel of 
the fascist and the pharmacist 
at your local college campus, 
director Alan Rudolph and 
producer Carolyn Plelffer 
(the team that brought you 
Welcome to LA) have provided 
you with Return Engagement*. 
You'll thrill as the good Dr. Tim 
waxes cosmic to a group of 
naked, blissed-out, aging hip- 
pies at Esalen! You'll wet your 
seat as G. Gordon harleys to 
hell with some former prison 



mates! Leary plays video 
games! Liddy plays extermi- 
nator at the Beverly Hills Gun 
Club! With special guest celeb- 
rities Harry Nilsson! Arnold 
Schwartzenegger! Geraldo 
Rivera! Shelley Hack! Cheech 
Marin! And the Lord's own turn- 
coat, Marjoe Gortner! Plus, 
stomp your feet to the psyche- 
delic soundtrack sounds of King 
Crimson's own Adrian Belew! All 
culminating in the Great De- 
bate, filmed in Los Angeles — 
the city where everyone's a 
star— a year ago iast Septem- 
ber! See Leary squirm as he's 
confronted by a Vietnam vet 
whose eyes were shot out by 
LSD-crazed youths! See Liddy 
make feeble excuses for mur- 
der! See two men, however 
ego-smitten they are, remind 
you of what is great about 
America and why they are two 
of the best, and most opposite, 
reasons for its greatness! You'll 
run the whole gamut, from 
laughter to tears, from greed to 
integrity! At a theater near you! 
—Michael Simmons 




"If Norman Mailer 
can repackage 
Marilyn Monroe a 
few times, there's 
no reason he can't 
do justice to The 
Creature from the 
Black Lagoon." 



Head any good movies lately? With 
another gift-giving season upon us, you 
might start pondering that question in 
earnest. Movie novelizations, you see, are 
all the rage in bookstores these days, 
with science fiction and fantasy tomes 
leading the pack. 

Basically, novelizations are instant- 
books. Usually, they appear simultan- 
eously with the movie they're based 
upon and, for the most part, are merely 
fleshed out versions of the script. 

Unfortunately, a lot of these noveliza- 
tions are fair to ridiculous in execution 
(can anyone forget just how idiotic the 
Cose Encounters book was?), although, 
lately, a lot of real, honest-to-Yoda writers 
have been recruited to take their crack 
at the projector-to-paperback process. 
(Please believe me, William Kotzwlnkle 
actually wrote novels before he did EI 
and Superman III.) 

These half-breed books have proven 
themselves to be bona fide best-sellers 
(as of this writing, Joan Vinge's Return of 
the Jedi storybook, retailing in hardcover 
for a hefty $6.95, has been on the New 
York Times best-seller list for 18 weeks!!) 
but, frankly, for the true literature buff, 
they lack, er, that certain je ne sais quoi 
that makes for good, rewarding reading. 

And so, in the true spirit of artistic com- 
promise, I propose the perfect hybrid. 
Novelizations that will appeal to both the 
snobs and the submorons! First, fill the 
books with tons of photos from their 
movie source. Then, have the studios re- 
cruit big name writers to pen the novel- 
izations. This process will be great for new 
movies and, heck> you can even go back 
and dust off some of the older titles for a 
quick superstar reworking. 

Look. If Norman Mailer can repackage 
Marilyn Monroe a few times, there's no 
reason he can't do justice to The 
Creature from the Black Lagoon. 

And now, just to show the studios that 
my heart (and wallet) are in the right 



place, here are a few example noveliza- 
tions I'd like to see in my Christmas stock- 
ing this year, 

E.T... D.O. A. 

By Mickey Splllane 

He was short and lean and mean and 
green . . . and stuck In a clothes closet. He 
pressed his body against the wall. It felt 
good to his touch. He glanced around 
him. He was surrounded by dolls. Not the 
kind of dolls he was used to hanging 
around, either. These ones were stuffed 
with sawdust and probably wouldn't sur- 
vive a quick round of Hide the Tentacle 
without losing an arm or a leg, or a Made 
in Taiwan tag. 

He strained his head to listen for the 
Earth woman called "Mommy" outside. 
He would have strained his ears but his 
kind didn't have them. His kind never did. 
Sensing that big Mommy was gone, he 
flat-footed it out of the closet and across 
the room. 

Thaf s when he spotted them. 

They were round and shiny and 
chocolate. 

Without thinking, he grabbed one. It 
felt good to his touch. Besides that. It 
melted in his mouth and not in his tendril. 

The room began to spin around him. 
The shock of recognition hit him hard. He 
had wandered onto a set left over from 
Poltergeist. 

Psycho, Too 

By Mister Rogers 

Norman Bates stood over the lady with 
the knife stuck in her head, wondering if 
she was dead or just a unicorn, 

A unicorn is a mythological animal that 
has a horn coming out of Its head. It looks 
very much like a horse, but Isn't. 

"Oh no!" Norman said, "It looks like this 
lady has been impaled by a knife!" 

"Whafs that?" cried his friend, Betsy, 



stepping from the shadows. 

"Impaled?' Norman blinked. "If s like 
being stabbed only worse. Can you say 
Impaled?" 

'Yes," Betsy replied. "Im-paled." 

"See T Norman grinned. "That wasn't so 
hard." 

"What are we going to do, Norman?" 
Betsy asked. 

"Well, we could go upstairs and count 
from one to ten. Can you count from one 
to ten?" 

'Yes," Betsy nodded. "I can. That is a 
very good idea. I am beside myself with 
joy." 

"Does that mean there are three of 
you down here spying on me7' Norman 
said, pulling the knife out of the lady and 
holding it in front of him. 

"Norman," Betsy laughed, backing 
away. "It was just a figure of speech. Can 
you say figure of speech." 

"Sure," Norman smiled. "Im-pale. 
I-M-P-A-L-E." 

Twilight Zone: The Movie 
By Andy Rooney 

You are entering another dimension . . . 
a dimension not only of sight and sound 
but also of the mind. Hey. Have you ever 
really thought about how we use the 
word "mind?" If I use my brain, then I'm 
using my mind. But if I mind someone's 
child, am I braining him? Only if the little 
squirt is a real monster. Have you ever 
thought about the term justifiable homi- 
cide? And how about pedophilia. I 
mean, how many peds can you feel at 
one time anyway? 

Yor 

By Ernest Hemingway 

It was hot. The sun beat down on his 
peroxide hair, reflected off his arms, 
around his elbows and settled 'round his 
massive fingers — calloused from doing 
things that people in New Jersey only 
dream about. 



He stood in the desert sand, his feet 
outstretched, his legs arched and gleam- 
ing. He squinted at the alien landscape 
stretched before him. Boy, this place sure 
looked like Turkey. 

the woman next to him stared up, 
adoringly, at his thighs. She was very, very 
short. 

"Who are you?" she asked the tall, 
masculine stranger. 

"I'm Yor." 

"You're my what?" 

"I'm not your anything." 

"Then who are you?" 

"I'm Yor." 

The woman rolled her eyes, but caught 
them before they got away. "You're my 
what?" 

"I'm not your anything!!" 

"Then who are you?" 

"I'm \br, not yourW 

"Oh. You're Vtir? 

"Yeah." 

"OK." 

Yor gazed down at the woman, feeling 
a stirring in his loincloth that was either 
excitement or a squirrel monkey. "And 
who are you?" he asked. 

"Mine," she answered. 

"You're Mine?" 

"You wish." 

They both stared at the alien land- 
scape before them. Boy, it really did 
seem like Turkey out there. 

Star Trek III: The Search For Spock 
By Barbara Woodhouse 

Now, where is that Spock anyway? 
Here Spock. Come on, Spock. Come 



here, boy. Spock? Spock? Gashl This isn't 
like him at ail! Spock? Come on, boy. 
Over here. 

Something Wicked This Way Comes 
By Neil Simon 

It was the kind of crisp, colorful 
October known only to senile people 
and Hallmark Cards. Mr. Dark knocked on 
the door. Once. Twice. The door swung 
open. 

"I am Mr. Dark." he announced. "I have 
come for the children." 

"Great," said the man at the door. "My 
name is Lenny. Biff Lenny and kids I'm all 
outta." 

"But I ... I thought . . . Isn't this 1006 
Mockih..." 

"Nah. irs 1009. Common mistake. Hey. I 
seen you around. You own that carnival, 
right. The Pancreatic . . ." 

"Pandemonium." 

'Whatever. I used to be in vaudeville. 
Need o comic, Darkie?" 

"Thar s Dark." 

"Think so? I'll talk to my decorator. Hey. I 
like you, Darkie. You gotta snappy come- 
back. Just like your checks. Just kidding." 

"Look, I really must be going." 

"Calm down. You're starting to look like 
the first husband of a widow. Ba-dom- 
bomp. Hey. Anyone ever tell you that you 
were dark and handsome? When it's 
dark, you're handsome. Say, is that your 
nose or are you eating a banana? I tell 
ya. Dark, you might think about getting 
your face lifted. Maybe by Steve Reeves. 
No, I'm kidding. You're very good looking 
in a way. Away off." 



"I have to go." 

"But I haven't even made fun of 
California yet!" 

"Really." 

"That's ok. I understand. You know, your 
photos do you a real injustice. They look 
like you." 

Mr. Dark backed down the stairway 
and walked quickly to the house next 
door. He knocked on the portal. Once. 
Twice. It swung open. A thin, birdlike man 
stood there. 

"I am Mr. Dark and I've come for . . ." 

"Oscari" Felix yelled, "another one of 
your poker playing cronies is here." 

"No, I'm . . . ." 

"Oscar will be out in a minute. He's suf- 
fering from bottle fatigue." 

A voice boomed from within. "Don't 
mind Felix, he's such an indecisive wimp 
he has a seven-year-old kid he hasn't 
named yet!" 

Mr. Dark leaned against the door and 
sighed. 'You have any aspirin?' 

Impressed? I thought so. And this is only 
the tip of the iceberg, book buffs. I have 
plans! Big plans! Novelizations are only 
the beginning! How about the Conan 
the Barbarian Activity Book (ax blades 
not included]! Or George Romero's 
Lunch of the Living Dead Cook Book 
(watch out for his recipe for lady fingers!). 
And the Spacehunter Puzzle Book (See 
the actors. They are lost. Can you help 
them find the plot? If so, would you like to 
be a producer?)! 

The possibilities are limitless) 

—Ed Naha 



D FOR HOME 

lacOMPUTERS 




there are plenty of software 

amd hardware systems being made 
for home computers, most of them, 
offer certain advantages-like special 

EFFECTS, ACCURACY, OR EASY-To-gPERATe 
Controls- but there AflE Drawbacks 

THE BIGGEST PROBtEM WITH COM- 
PUTER GRAPHICS IS THEIR CHEESINESS. 
Ei/EN THE BEST-LOOKiNG WGH-RESOLUToN 
MODES WITH 61,000 SCREEN PoWTS. ANGUS 
RESoWED To TWo-TEHIHS OF A DEGREE, 
AH0 "UULlMilED" COLOR SELECTION, CAN'T 
WftTcH REAL ARTWORK on PAP£R,CANVAS, 
OR SUBWAY T* AIHS. YOU CAN ALWAYS 
GET A BETTEK-LOoKiNG, PICTURE IFVOU 
PAlNT on THE GLASS OYER, THE Tele- 
vision MONITOR THAN PLAYING WITH 
A COMPUTER PROGRAM PLUGGED 
1t4T0 it. 

THE BEST REASON foft GETTING 
A COMPUTER GRAPHICS SYSTEM IS TO 
HAVE FUN. ITS ALSO GOOD FoR 6£«ni*i 
fAMiLIAR WITH CoMPuTERS'THEIR U«- 
rtATioNS AMD CAPAflinTiES-oR For 
ANYoNE WHO could USE THEM FOR SiHMt 



REPORTS AMD BUSINESS PRESENTATIONS. 
PEOPLE WHO CANT DRAW A STRAIGHT LiNt 
CAN PLAY W'TH THEIR COMPUTER AND 

PPODUCE A PROFESSIONAL-LOOKING 
CHART, GRAPH, OR. DiAGRAM. 

THERE ARE ABOUT A DozEN DIFFER- 
ENT ART PROGRAMS OH THE MARKET 
HERE'5 A RUNDOWN OF THREE OF 
THE BEST. 

THE MOST ACCURATE SYSTEM. IS 

THE VERSAWRtT£R.TrtET PRQUiDE You 
Willi A DIGITIZER DRAWING; BOARD 
CAn8"><i2'/2" PLftSTic board with 
A DRAWING ARM) THAT IS ACCURATE 
To "30 THOUSANDTHS OF AN iNcH.THE 
TEXTWRiTER" MoDE SETS TYPE 
1*1 DIFFERENT FACES, OR LANGUAGES, 

EYEN, ANYWHERE ON THE SCREEN. FOR 

MAKING GRAPHS AND ACCURATE. 
TRYING, U.ERSAWRJTER'S THE BEST. 
KoAUwARE'S KoAl-APAD foUCH 
TAftLET (THE MICRO ILLUSTRATOR 
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To DRAW WITH .THE KOAlAVAP IS A 



SMALL BOX THAT REPRop J CES IMAGES 
ON THE TV. SCREEN WHEN THE STYLUS 
(<* EilEN A FiHGER ) MOVES ACROSS ITS 
SuRFACE.ITS LIKE DRAWING OH AtJoTE- 

Pad with a pencil, only the Picture 
ends up on the tv set. it alsooffers 

ALL THE USUAL FUNttlONS-WHKHMEAHS 
YOU CAN DRAW, ERftSE, DRAW STRAIGHT 
LINES, CIRCLES, BoXES.CHANGEOtoRS, 
FILL IN PARTS OF THE DRAWING WITH 
DIFFERENT CoioRS, OR PIA&WH A TiNY 
PART OF THE SCREEH FOR DETAILED 
WORK. FOR ANYotlE WHO WANTS A FUN, 
EASY WW To DRAW WITH A COMPUTER, 
THIS IS It 

THE WWUlT PRo&RAM USES A 
JOYSTICK To DRAW WITH, WHICH IS 
US MAIN DRAWBACK. this M f_THoD IS 
HOT VERY ACCURATE. IT CAN. Do EVER* 
THING THE OTHERS CAN DO, THOUGH, 
AND IT FEATURES SIMPLE COMPUTER 
ANIMATION. You CBN ALSO ADD Any 
SIZ.E TEXT To A DRAWING!. 

UNFORTUNATELY, NONE of THESE 
PROGRAMS ARE COMPATIBLE inITH ANY 



op THE OTHERS, THE IDEAL SYSTEM 

would combine the touch-tablet's 
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accuracy ahd tektwriter.then add 
drawvts animation as well. 

ALL op THEtt ARE FiM, EftSY-Tb-USE, 
AHD EHABLE THE USER To EXPERIMENT 
WtlH SIMPLE COMPUTER GRAPHICS. W.EVE 
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UNDERGROUND COMK 

ARE ALIVE AND WELL AND LIVING IN YOUR MAILBOX! 

That's right. The original, uncensored comix from the underground might not be easy to find, but they 
can be as near as your mailbox. These collections are original editions by the same artists who set the 
world of cartooning on its ear with their uninhibited humor and other-worldly visions. You must be 18 or 
older to order these collections of comic art. Packages include at least 4 comix with a retail value of at least 
the listed price. 




/.<J.*./ 



fi/EWVORK, AUGUST /7 th , /9&&—FKOM fZAfi/X£/?OX'S £l£Cm<DA//C ' /We/WORY; 

ll/ffA/A AND I HAVE LIVED IN NEW VORK- FOR OWE/WOA/W: AFTER THAT HORRIBLE EXPERIENCE WITH A/lfSTER. 
VOL ARE AND 55040W4V/ WE -SHARED AN APARTMENT ON THE LOWER EAST -S IDE WITH A STRANGE GUY 
WHO KEALLY GOT ON LUBNAS NERVED. WITH MY BUILT-IN MACHINERY FOR SIMULTANEOUS TRANSLATION (NEW 
VOEti (6 AN INCREDIBLE MELTING POT), r DIDN'T HAVE ANY TROUBLE WITH THE VARIOUS LANGUAGES. THUS 1 , X 
WORKED AS A CAff 0lZf*/£G?, FERRYING PEOPLE: EVERYWHERE. BUT AS YOU MIGHT KNOW, IN MEW YORK YOU 
MSIASfS HAVE ENOUGH /tfOWgY, AND MY RELATIONSHIP WITH LUBMA WAS MORE "STRAIMSO THAN EVER. 




ftf -we. CAtf'r eeEP ■■ 

**OWI DM LIKE THt^, &UIX' 




we STfU. HAvesiY faio the f*eMT we cpont 

HAVE A flSSW/X I'VE AMP /7" WITH eABS^fTT/WS 
FOR THOSE LITTLE MOUGOLlAWS, THIS 1^ AW 
/O/OTg £fF£,FMlX. TOMORROW I'LL BE 
A/ffJ£-f£efJ... TOO 0££> FOR THIS &ULL- 
$HlTf 




FROAAf>£/A/CH/MG /A/ HER LITTLE ■SHITFACE/ BUT WHAT AM X SAVfMQ? -SHE 1$ /WV ZfWE. T C4A/T HURT HER 



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MBTA£- JW (MR CRASHES EXCITES 
/1AE TO DEATH/ TH&SeAI?E/Hy 
PI W- UPS/ 



look at TMts Slipe of that model, FRAMKte fZQG&2$. 

I FASTED PHOTOS OF WOUWPS, CLIPPED FROM A /VtGOtCAt- 
PfCTfOMABY, OM HEE FACE. MY Pf^GAty IS TO CVff 



IM AW ACCIDEWTAT THE SAME TIMS $M£ DOE9 AWO 
TO HAVE AM OffS^S/W AT THE MOMENT Of= 





THepE WASgg^fF7///A/S ABOUT TIMOTHY THAT (WSPIREP 
C£VW£ «V7V IW /WE. HE WAS A TW/ZTY-S/X-VEA*- 
Ot& GOING ON FfFTWSMAUD ME MAC? INCREDIBLE EN- 
THUSIASM. HE HELPEDME TO COOL POWM MY TRANSfS- 

tors-the owes that lubna hao ove&HeATsh. 



I'LL ■SHOW YOU 
HOW I GOT THOSE 
PICTURES. DO YOU 
WANT TO -SEE? 



FOLLOW THAT t — i 

AMgULAWCE/ J 




FOLLOWING. THE AMBULANCE, WE EVENTUALLY ARWEC AT THE 5ITE OF A Te&Rtff£&AQ£t&0MK 




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mis G GREAT/lHSS 





TURN THAT SHIT OFP, RANX. I CAM'T 
COMCefJTRATe- OH, BABY/ rS THe 
COLD VIWYL UWEE YOUR ASS TO© 
MUCH FOR YOU3 




WAS FASCIWATEC? BY HIS £-XClTBM5NT. I FELT 
A<^ IFMV BISCUITS WOULP WANT TO LGARAS 
ABOUT TH&SE 5eSf?AT(ON5. LU 0NAHAD 
M&VefZ TALKSC? TO ME ABOUT THESE TH/NuS. 

r tWistep /vw ri&ht nipple im oeaee to turn 

OM TH& RAQtO IM MY BOW 



STOP 
CPYING.YOU 
LITTLE IDIOT, 
OK YOU WON'T , 
EAT TO- 
NIGHT.' 



.' J3&/2> i I 




TO ge COWTfWL/EO... 



rai$u> — — — - • - . 

\ t\fc\\A ' MEETSTHE TOAST OF EUROPE PHET4 

IVUm*' GREETINGS! WELL,0NCEAGWNHAN6M/\(ftC0RMERSFlNDS 

lUnWtVt ITSELF ENMESHED IN A5INISTER SKEIN OF INSIDIOUS EVENTS, 
rf vJjJT 'iTHISTl ME EVOLVING OUTOF THE ARRIVAL OF MAESTRO P*8«NO, 
™ " ttoU i THE FAMOUS FOREIGN Fl DDLER, AND HIS WEIRD BUDDY, KLEID. 
Butmur\ S0FAR,WE'\IESEEN.ABADBLANKET,ACUR5ED ■* 

TOiUlTO 'CURTAIN AND THE POSSIBLE WATERY DEMISE OF 
W.W ' OUR OLD FRIENDS, HERP AND SWEAZ 

MVY5. -;.>.■,'.' ■■■■! ; »* .,, i, i ..- ■'■'.,,.■ , 





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Back in Hangman's Corners, at the noose and Gibbet Saloon .Tg/f 



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Mildred.willvou help me? 
Get PalowiaSue out of her. 

/ YOU WILLNO DOUBT FIND HIM S ] Xt"™^ AN ? U! J DER J, H „I 

( at the Noose aud&ibbet.And tj Icoveks, while I ma ke a fire 

\ JULIO, WEAR YOUR SLICKER"/ 





EROTICA AW^flSjjy^ 




These strips nre excerp!ed tram the no* book. Strips < i lustra fed by Rarbe. and published by Flying Buttress Publications I! will be available this winter. 



■ma wigh a cAuse 








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tfow cz\Re -iou mxe ad- 
vantage Of= TMAT&/QC /A/ 
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yowre a 

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rrm only 

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OF COURSE/ TKA/OW... TWSEP TO 
BE THE GOOD GUY/m5ELF. LOOK- 
ING EVERYBOPY ST&VGHT/A/ THE 
EYE... F^ELP/MS CLP LAP/E'S AHC 
CHILDREN... AND ALWAYS ffEIA/G 
BEATEN BCACK AND BLUE" ALL 
OVER... 












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OVER? -iOUR-.uh... L^O \ VT ^^W\ 
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FATHER ELI AH 

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S'LONAL 
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AND HE'LL 
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OUT, 

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36 HEAVY METAL 




HEAVY METAL 37 




38 HEAVY METAL 



mm 



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HEAVY METAL 41 





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A/&/ XPON'T WANT 
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WANT TO -SLeBP 




42 HEAVY METAL 



JUNE 205D 



gRjmON! 




met would | 

MOT BE 
COMING. 



He accepted 

THAT MOW, AFTER 
ALL THE WEEKS OF 
FRUITLESS TKANS,/H/$- 

■3/on on A sue^mcE 

RADIO THAT HAP 

PROBABLY SEEN 

SROKTEM IN 

the CRASH 

AUYWAY 



H£ Off? NOT /W/NC? 
REALLY, NOT ANY 
MORE. 



TOPAY, QF 
ALL- PAYS, 
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HM TO 

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PEACE WITH 
PEATH. 




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/BLES TOHOLP BACK 
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TOCW WOULP 
HAVE BBEN 
SPECIAL FOR 
Hl/H... 



<WRITTEW Si, 

l£M WE//J 




46 HEAVY METAL 



LET'S GET 
CLOSER FOR> 
VISUAL CONTACT/ 
AH6AP AT A 

speed of 
thirty knots/ 




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HEAVY METAL 49 




50 HEAVY METAL 




HEAVY METAL 51 




HI. I'M 1 
HERE 1 
i FOR 1 
THAT 1 
POSI- 1 
TION_^ 


W AH, 1 

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Y0UN6 MAN, ARE YOU FAMILIAR 
WITH THAT OLP THOUGHT, "IF 
ENOUGH MONKEYS WORKEP AT 
TYPEWRITERS LONG ENOUGH 
THEYCOULP WRITE THE /-if-" 
COMPLETE WORKS OF ,--</ J ^ 
SHAKESPEARE"? __X NO-YOH. 




WELL, YOUNG MAN, I'M 
A SCIENTIST. IT HAS 
BEEN MY LIFE'S WORK 
TO PROVE THIS THEORY. 
IN FACT, IT HAS BEEN 
MY PBSTiNYt 




YEAH— THAT IS, YES/ 
ANPI NEEP SOMEONE 
TO CONTINUE MY WORK, 
(N CASE I... 




IT'S NOT VERY DIFFICULT 
WORK, REALLY. ALL YOU'VE 
TO PO IS MAKE 5URE THE 
MONKEYS PON'T PAWPLE..- 



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era, SIT/ ANP 



CHECK THE FINISHEP 
SHEETS, LIKE THIS ONE: 
"RWZ£3LM ZT YAQ EQW... 1 

-I PON'T BELIEVE 
IT! 

i 




HOW LON& PO 1 
YA THINK IT'LL 
TAKE FOR THE 
MONKEYS TO 
FINISH SHAKES- 
PEARE'S i 
WORK'S? /, 


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perhaps! 

A FEW 1 

MORE J 
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THE LAWS OF PROBABILITY 
PO STATE, HOWEVER, THAT 
TO COME UP WITH JUST 
"TO BE OR NOT TO BE," 
ONE WOULP NEEP A TRIL- 
LION MONKEYS WORKING 
FULL-TIME FOR MORE 
THAN A TRILLION TIMES 
AS LONG AS THE UNI- 
VERSE'S EXISTENCE. 






*&■ 



BUT BECAUSE 
OUR MONKEYS 

HAVE TO 
SLEEP, WE'P 
NEEP TWICE 
THAT TIME, OF 

COURSE, 




BUT WE CAN'T STOP 
THERE.' THE GOAL IS TO 
PROPUCE ALL OF SHAKES- 
PEARE'S WORKS, NOT 
JUST A SENTENCE* SO 
OUR WORK 5HOULP TAKE 
A LITTLE LONGER 



YOU MUST BE OUTA 
YOUR JMIMP.' THIS 
IS RIDICULOUS' 





52 HEAVY METAL 



The Sentinel 



by Arthur C Clarke 
Illustrated by Lebbeus Woods 



■ 



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,; ,. ; ;."v ^; ".v 





The Sentinel, by Arthur C. Clarke, illustrated by Lebbeus Woods, is a Byron Preiss Visual 
Publications Book, published by Berkley Books, It is the first in a series of masterworks of science fiction and fantasy. 




Refugee 

It was written in 1954, and I cannot pretend that no resemblance was intended 
to any living character. Indeed, I have since met the prototype of "Prince Henry" 
on three occasions, and on the last — here in Colombo, only a few months ago — 
we had a conversation uncannily appropriate to this story. 

Our first meeting, I mentioned, had been at an exhibition circa 1958 optimis- 
tically called "Britain Enters The Space Age." His Royal Highness laughed and 
answered wryly: "We never did, did we?" 

Not quite true, of course, since there are many British satellites in orbit, and 
there will soon be a few Britons (courtesy the U. S. Space Shuttle) as well. But 
that isn't exactly what I had in mind. 

Well, Sir Isaac Newton invented gravity. Perhaps one day we British may be 
lucky enough to disinvent it. 



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Medusa 



/\ Meeting with Medusa" was the last story I ever wrote, before concen- 
trating entirely on novels. It won a Playboy editorial award and the Science Fiction 
Writers of America's annual Nebula, so I am proud to have made it my swan song 
... for the present, at any rate. 

And here's a very strange coincidence. Until I started to write this note, I'd 
completely forgotten that I used the name "Kon-Tiki" for the exploring vehicle. 
And so I was able to autograph a copy of "Medusa" for Thor Heyerdahl — when I 
met him this morning, right here in Colombo . . . 




The Sentinel 

JMext to "The Star" and "The Nine Billion Names of God," I suppose "The 
Sentinel" is my best-known short story — though not for itself, but as the seed 
from which 2001: A Space Odyssey sprang, twenty years after it was written in 
1948. I wonder if I even noticed Christmas that year; Opus 62 bears the date 
23-26 December . . . 

Unlike most of my short stories, this one was aimed at a specific target — which 
it missed completely. The BBC had just announced a Short Story Competition; I 
submitted "The Sentinel" hot from the typewriter, and got it back a month later. 

I am continually annoyed by careless references to "The Sentinel" as "the story 
on which 2001 is based"; it bears about as much relation to the movie as an acorn 
to the resultant full-grown oak. (Considerably less, in fact, because ideas from 
several other stories were also incorporated.) Even the elements that Stanley 
Kubrick and I did actually use were considerably modified. Thus the "glittering, 
roughly pyramidal structure ... set in the rock like a gigantic, many-faceted 
jewel" became — after several modifications — the famous black monolith. And the 
locale was moved from the Mare Crisium to the most spectacular of all lunar 
craters, Tycho — easily visible to the naked eye from Earth at Full Moon. 




AS&?e *3 z~h& pc&c& w-feize yowcc come. 
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you cams co appease ■£■//<=? zzzpccaR pee/R&s. 




"3TORY: BAZZOLl ART: G^ZA 



am 



BOOKSHELF 




ULYSSES 

Cover price— $6.95 
Special now— $3.50! 

Art and text by Lob and 
Pichard. The brave Ulysses 
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CONQUERING ARMIES 

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The dream epic of fierce 
horsemen who never lost a 
battle and never won a war, 
by French artist Lob, written 
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THE BOOK OF ALIEN 

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By Paul Scanlon. Designed 
by Michael Gross. Contains 
over 100 sketches, behind- 
the-scenes photos, inter- 
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MORE THAN HUMAN 

Cover price— $8.95 
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Theodore Sturgeon's sf 
classic, now in bold graphic 
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ALIEN: THE ILLUSTRATED 
STORY 

Cover price — $3.95 
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By Walter Simonson and 
Archie Goodwin. Based on 
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BARBARELLA THE MOON 
CHILD 

Cover price— $6.95 
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The first feminine fantasy 
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the book also includes 
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MOEBIUS 

Cover price— $2.95 
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Introduction by Federico 
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HEAVEN, THE FLOWERS 

OF HELL 

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Michael Moorcock's gothic 
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— DELIRIUS 

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The lush painting of Philippe 
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lettering by Dominique 
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tures through time and 
space and the fantastic 
world of Delirius are 
presented for the first time in 
English, in full color. 



Heavy Metal, Dept. 184, 635 Madison Avenue, NYC, NY 10022 

Please send me the Heavy Metal books as indicated below. I have enclosed a check or money order payable to Heavy Metal books. I 

have included 75C for postage and handling of each book. 



Ulysses copies at $3.50 each 

Conquering Armies . copies at $2.50 each 

The Book of Alien copies at $3.95 each 

More Than Human copies at $3.95 each 

Alien: The Illustrated Story. —copies at $1.95 each 

Total amount enclosed: $ 



Name . 
Address 
City — 



Barbarella the Moon Child— 



-copies at $2.95 each 
—copies at $1 .95 each 



The Swords of heaven, the Flowers of Hell 

copies at $3.50 each 

Lone Sloane-Delirius- —copies at $4.95 each 



(New York State residents, please add applicable sales tax.) 



.Zip. 




HEAVY METAL 69 




70 HEAVY METAL 




HEAVY METAL 71 




HEAVY METAL 73 




74 HEAVY METAL 



This month's "Chain Mail" is made up of 
letters sent to us in reference to the review, 
"Hatcketing Harlan" [October 1983 HM7- As 
you mill see, opinions are pretty much divided, 
and this section is intended to show the reader 
reaction and not to feed the egos of anyone 
concerned. 

Editorial comments were intentionally with- 
held from the column in hopes of presenting an 
unprejudiced view. 

-JSL 

Editor: 

The late film producer, Jerry Wald, once 
told me that on his first visit to Paris he man- 
aged to get a meeting with Pablo Picasso. 
After some conversation about Hollywood 
and cinema, Wald asked Picasso what he was 
working on now. "Would you believe it?" 
Jerry told me. "This genius, in his seventies, 
secure as one of the greats of all time, said, 
'I'm looking for a new style.' " 

I've deep admiration for the rare artist who 
creates a new style, a new sound, a new 
vision. That's the hallmark of a first-rate 
talent and I was surprised to read that in 
Harlan Ellison's case, Mr. Gus Patukas has 
turned the hallmark into stigma. And I was 
amused because the barbs Mr. Patukas shot 
at Ellison, might equally have applied to 
Heavy Metal which has also created a new 
sound and continued it. 

High style, which both Heavy Metal and 
Ellison have, must not be confused with rep- 
etition, nor Ellison's fascinating extrapola- 
tions of our subcultures be condemned as 
"dated." It isn't the material, it's the handling 
that counts. I quote a great biologist who was 
asked what discovery was. He said, "Dis- 
covery is seeing what everyone else sees but 
thinking what no one else has thought. " 

Isn't that what Harlan Ellison has done? 
And now that his terrifying (to civilians) bril- 
liance is beginning to mature he might well 
reply to the final question in Mr. Patukas's 
hatchet job, "And more to the point, does 
Harlan Ellison have any life left?" with a 
rewrite of John Paul Jones's famous line, 
"Turkey! I have not yet begun to create. " 

Alfred Bester 
Bucks County, PA 

HM: 

Please acknowledge your reviewer Gus 
Patukas for his understanding of the true 
Harlan Ellison. This is the first time I have 
felt someone else has seen into and thru the 
bigot of our time. 

Ellison's real message is beware of Elli- 
son. He is the example of life without com- 
passion and honesty. If one would want a 
true nightmare to come to life, it would be 
Ellison with the power to influence and sub- 
vert the meek and friends of mankind. He has 
said he was our friend and therefore had the 
right to speak for us, when actually by his 
own actions, has proved himself to be our 
enemy. I thank you for your thorough analy- 
sis of his writings and of his personality. I just 
hope he understands that he can no longer 
get away with bullshitting the public. 

William Charles Rosetta 
LA.CA 



CHAIN 
MAIL 

Dear Ms. Simmons-Lynch: 

While Gus Patukas is entitled to his opin- 
ions as a reviewer, I really have to ask if the 
purpose of "Hatcheting Harlan" was to re- 
view Ellison's recently reissued books, or 
rather was this merely an excuse to vent 
personal animosities? Either way the piece 
shows poor editorial judgement both by 
"Dossier" editor Lou Stathis and yourself. 

Didn't the hypocrisy of "Hatcheting Har- 
lan" appearing in a magazine that has regular- 
ly printed Ellison's stories occur to you? 
Especially when most of the work you bought 
was written after Harlan had "faded from 
prominence in the mid-seventies after pub- 
lishing a last stab at respectability — The 
Deathbird Stories (1975)"? 

And how about your back issue ad on 
pages ninety and ninety-one. Was this the 
same Harlan Ellison who wrote the "ever 
timely essay on violence in America" from 
your March 1981 issue? 

Hypocrisy notwithstanding, I'm sure you 
are aware that height is a genetic trait over 
which an individual has no choice. So why 
attack a person for being short? I don't think 
you'd run a photo of James Baldwin with the 
caption "No nigger jokes, please," but then 
I've overestimated your standards before. 

Were I still a subscriber, I wouldn't be 
angrily cancelling my subscription over just 
the one article. It takes a longstanding com- 
mitment to mediocrity such as yours before I 
give up on a magazine. Then again, were i 
still a subscriber it would be because Heavy 
Metal were a much better publication, in 
which case I doubt "Hatcheting Harlan" 
would ever have appeared. 

Richard Gilliam 
Huntsville, AL 

Dear Sirs/Mmes: 

Let me congratulate Gus Patukas on a 
long-overdue drubbing of that fatuous, 
stilted, hollow-souled, micro-talented, hip- 
per-than-thou, sermonizing bore Harlan Elli- 
son. If ever there was a man raised above his 
station, it's that fool. He has one last option: 
he should go to Paris where his pseudo-radi- 
cal ass-kissing will be considered state-of- 
the-art by all the other world-weary para- 
noids prowling its ragged streets. 

NedWynn 
LA, CA 

Dear Editor: 

No one can deny that Harlan Ellison is a 
tempting target for the critic's poisoned pen. 
His lifestyle is flamboyant and at times radi- 
cal, which, of course, the readers of Heavy 
Metal should find shocking, right? But a re- 
sponsible commentator should be able to 
stand above any ingrained personal hatred 
when a major magazine allows him the space 
to write about a major twentieth century 



author. With his article, "Hatcheting Har- 
lan," Gus Patukas has created a work of 
critical nonsense. Why must an unknown 
writer like Patukas insist on stamping his feet 
and shrieking at the top of his voice against 
one of the very few writers who created a 
lasting body of work from the depths of sci- 
ence fiction's "New Wave" of the sixties and 
went on to even greater prominence in the 
field of established literature? "Does Ellison's 
ego really demand that even the weakest of 
his earlier works reappear in print?" asks 
Patukas. This is a good demonstration of his 
abject ignorance of the science fiction field. 
Quite a bit of Ellison's earliest work remains 
uncollected, Doomsman being a notorious 
example. The Ace/Ellison series is intended 
to be just that; a series. It provides an over- 
view of the career (so far) of someone who 
might, with the perspective of history, be 
called the most important writer of our time. 
Thus Patukas's hatchet work doesn't bother 
me that much. It will be no more than an 
amusing item of marginalia in the future study 
of Ellison. 

Curtis W. Phillips 
Abingdon, VA 

An anonymous reader sent in this newslet- 
ter, which purports to be from the Harlan Elli- 
son Record Collection: 

MEMBERS: 

For reasons that pass understanding, 
Heavy Metal magazine, a publication that has 
published Harlan's work on numerous occa- 
sions, is running this piece {copy of "Hatchet- 
ing Harlan" accompanies this newsletter — 
ed.) in its "Dossier" section of the current 
(October 1983) issue. It is, to say the least, 
in its own words, a hatchet job. The byline is 
unfamiliar to any of us here at The Collection, 
and may be a phony: the writing and the sen- 
timents, however, reflect the style and pre- 
viously-expressed opinions of an ex-Clarion 
writing student of HE's, who has gone mad in 
print with jealousy of HE in much similar 
fashion, more than a few times. This guy has 
caused HE much trouble in the past, and 
spread considerable damaging gossip. The 
editor of the "Dossier" section, one Lou 
Stathis, is a close buddy of this guy. And 
Stathis has long held animus for HE. We send 
you this so you won't deluge us with cards 
and letters of outrage. HE knows about it . . . 
and it brought him down so much he couldn't 
work for two days. Mostly because the 
editor of Heavy Metal, Julie Simmons-Lynch, 
has been a friend of long standing. If any of 
you out there who receive this hold differing 
opinions about HE's work, and you feel so 
inclined, you might want to send a short 
letter to HM's mail column ("Chain Mail"). 
The address is c/o HM Communications, 
Inc., 635 Madison Avenue, New York, NY 
10022. HE knows we're sending out this 
flyer, but he doesn't want any letters you 
might send to HM to be motivated by per- 
sonal feelings for him. If you think what "Gus 
Patukas" wrote isn't responsible where HE's 
work is concerned, send a note; otherwise, 
forget it. Either way, this flyer is just among 
us, okay? 



CM4F7E&/2.- ROBOT zWOMSTER, WITH 
THE AID OF HC3 HORRIFIC CALCUL- 
ATOR DEATH RAY, HAS KILLED OFF 
THE ENTIRE HUMAN RACE, EXCEPT 
FOR ONE PERSOW. 



HM's STAR DISSECTIONS 



THE 
WORLD, 

THE 

FLESH, 

& ROBOT 



§1984 DREW 
FRIEDMAN 



FROM HIS -SECRET EARTH HtpEOUT, 
ROBOT MONSTER'S CALCINATOR 
TELEVISOR TRACES VO*M. THE 
LONE HUMAN- 




SsllL-. - "isfikii -mm 






ft tUHwm 




"Confusion, and illusion, and relation, 
Elusion, and occasion, and evasion." 

Tennyson, Idylls of the King 

Christopher D deserves grand entrances, down glorious 
staircases (his dead father's staircase) with thousands watch- 
ing. Although he is short— five inches from a midget — he 
commands attention. He's lame. He's a prince. 

"My great-great-grandmother was a Russian princess, " he 
explained the first time I met him, "and she married a count. 
A cruel man whose father was killed during the War of the 
Commune in Paris. He was visiting the city when the fighting 
started. Someone broke into his suite while he was making 
love to his cousin's wife. Grabbing his pistol, he chased the 
intruder out into the hall and halfway down the stairs. He was 
naked. Below him, the looters laughed. He shot wildly into 
the crowd, and they tore him — literally — limb from limb. 

"While this was happening, his son (my great-great-grand- 
father) was at home in Rome, torturing cats. He was ten and 
went through thirty-two cats in the two and a half months 
that the French Civil War lasted. He kept a careful notebook. 
I have a pair of mittens made from the cats' fur. 

We met at Amherst College where I stabbed him once a 
night for a week. Twice on Saturday when we had a matinee. 
By the time The Zoo Story closed, we were best friends. 

During the summer, having graduated, we both stayed on 
to work as gardeners at the college, fell in love with sisters in 



Hadley, Massachusetts, and rode them till fall, carnal cow- 
boys, till September when Christopher vanished mysterious- 
ly back to his European home. Two years later, he reap- 
peared in New York City and after stalking me for a month 
suggested I join him when he returned to France. 

It was 1970. I had been constructing miniature plastic 
models of an airport for the SST (to be built in Maine, crack- 
ing open the rocky coast for the buttery slip, in and out, of 
transatlantic jets) and wanted a vacation. There was nothing 
to keep me in New York. The girl I loved (a Scientologist 
who cleared between Christmas and New Year's) had 
bussed, for her inexplicable druidical reasons, west to Los 
Angeles. Although she wore clown-white makeup and 
kohlrabi hairdos, somehow she finagled her way into a late 
Robert Cummings movie, and I never heard from her again. 

I accepted Christopher's invitation. 

In September, we were flying to Nice. 

Christopher lived with his great-aunt, Aristide D, wife of 
Deon, the dying aristocrat. She could have raised a lorgnette 
and gotten away with it. She wore her title stitched across 
her bosom. When she fixed me with her one good eye 
(right), I cowered; but she didn't notice for she was already 
off and running. The house. Deon. Dinner at nine. Formal. 
"You understand what that means?" Instructing the cannibal. 
"How do you know I won't politely lean across the table and 
chew off your fingers?" She didn't hear me, but that was all 



by David Black 
Illustrated by Randall Enos 



right. She glided under her tilting blue hair just in time. It 
didn't topple. Christopher. Helena. Deon. The names 
dropped lie tears into soup. Henry James was hanging in the 
closet. I caught a glimpse of him as the maid opened the door 
to hide my coat. He was suspended from a hook, reading Tip 
Top Weekly: Frank Merriwell's Wrist or The Nerve of Iron. 
He smiled vaguely as he turned the page. 

"Your trunk hasn't arrived?" Mme. D asked in American, 
sacramental language: the word is the wafer, and the wafer 
lies on the tongue like a gold coin. Aristide was American. 
(Her real name was Betty.) She lived in Greater America, a 
country of her gilded imagination. She spoke French only out 
of duty (to her husband), courtesy (to her guests), and 
malice (to her relatives in Riverdale, New York). I was be- 
neath her bilingualism. She blinked her watery blue eyes. 

"I have no trunk, " I explained. 

All my clothes were stuffed into my orange Samsonite 
suitcase with the broken hinge — which had gaped, spilling 
stuff, as I was climbing the steps to the mansion. Forty- 
seven steps. I was still young enough to feel embarrassed. 

Deon. She led me into his study so I could pay my 
respects. The dim room smelled like a hospital: rubbing 
alcohol and the modest whiff of urine. Two nurses fluttered 
on the fringes of consciousness. The walls of the room were 
covered with books. From shelves hung grinning African 
masks. Scattered over three library tables: skulls, old 
fashioned chemistry apparatus, globes of the Earth and the 
heavens, pieces of bone, pottery shards painted yellow, 
paleolithic tools. Mme. D handed me a stone ax as though I 
were an expert on stone axes. 

I put it on the table next to a simple steam engine which 
powered by a bunsen burner, was cranking away. I picked up 
a plaster heart and took that puzzle apart. Mme. D tapped 
the center table with a femur. 

"Usually, this is where we dine," she announced. She 
picked her teeth with the point of the bone. "To be near 
Deon. " 

Deon. Deon. He lay next to the window, half-smothered in 
blankets, life sliding like a garter snake from a bottle into his 
wrist. Music dribbled out slowly from a Zenith radio and 
splashed on the floor. A maid crawled from under the bed to 
mop up the puddle which hummed like an orchestra tuning 
up. When Mme. D ushered me forward, Deon blinked. 

"M. D," said Mme. D, jerking the upper part of her body 
in deference to her husband, "may I present M. Black. We 
have spoken of this at other times. " 

Deon's eyes stood up and slipped me on like a coat. "Not a 
bad fit, Aristide. A little narrow here and there, and the 
fabric is rather flimsy, isn't it?" 

Mme. D rustled from the room. At the doorway, before 
slamming the huge doors shut, she said to me, "You may 
read to him for a thirty minute period beginning presently. 
Read only what I have left out for you. The books are on the 
desk. There." 

The Autobiography of Bertrand Russell, the Middle Years, 
1914-1944 and Harold Nicolson. 

Deon's face, cocooned in covers, stared up at me. A flap of 
translucent skin at his throat pulsed in and out with his 
breathing. After she had left, I snuck out. 

"She thinks you're Deon's new sitter," snickered Chris- 
topher. "That's funny, isn't it?" 

"No," I said. 

We were in his room, trying to find a tuxedo that would fit 
me. The best we could do made me look like Chaplin. 

"I know I have a bowler around here somewhere," said 
Christopher. "And you could use one of Deon's old canes. " 

"Why didn't you warn me?" I asked. 



"Isn't this more amusing?" he said. 

I felt nauseated. 

"I'm enjoying it all, " he assured me. 

I sat on the bed and slit open the letter my sister had sent. 
It had been waiting for me when I arrived. She never wrote. 
Instead she forwarded newspapers and magazine clippings. 
Occasionally she underlined a significant phrase or circled an 
important paragraph, but she never commented. I had re- 
ceived in the week before leaving New York one I.F. Stone 
Bi-Weekly on black revolt, an article from Psychology Today in 
which Arthur Koestler said, "Once the credo is imprinted, 
man's schizoid brain permits his faith to coexist with his 
reason, even when they contradict on every point . . . ," a 
Scientific American ("The Calefaction of a River, " the Con- 
necticut River, where my grandfather used to swim), and a 
Leonard Lyons column. This time I found: 

HOW TO AVOID HARMFUL TENSION 
Emotional stress can weaken your resistance to disease — it 
could even shorten your life! Read how to stop kilting yourself 
through fear, hate, frustrations. July Reader's Digest. Pick 
up your copy today. 

At dinner, I met the pretender to the Portuguese throne, 
one of Christopher's cronies, who was also staying at the big 
house. After dinner, he let me in on a scam he was planning. 

"AH we need is, say, ten thousand bucks, " he said while 
we were walking in the hallway after dinner. He was chubby 
and drunk and the left earpiece was taped onto his eye- 
glasses. "Then, I fly back to New York, go into one bank in 
midtown, buy travelers checks, come out and immediately 
go into a dozen other banks and cash the checks. An hour 
later, I call up American Express complaining that my pocket 
was picked. We get reimbursed. Another ten thousand. 
They won't remember my face at the banks because of the 
rush-hour crowds. Even if American Express knows we're 
gypping them, they can't prove it and they have to give us 
the new checks for the ones that were stolen. " 

He had been thrown out of Stanford for stealing a police 
car. When the cops picked him up and asked his name, he 
said, "The King of Portugal. " They beat him in the back seat 
of the car he had stolen and threw him into jail, where he 
mooned for three months before his mother finally flew in 
from New York with two lawyers and sprung him. 

"It won't work, " I said. 

"It's worth a try," he said. "Can you lend me the money?" 

"No, "I said. 

"He's poor," explained Christopher. 

"Isn't everybody," he said. "You'll get a thousand bucks 
out of it. Two thousand? How about three?" 

"I don't have it, Gene, " I said. "Wish I did. " 

"Look," he glanced down the corridor. "I have a plan. 
Chris, the Collection. We pawn something small. A little 
diamond or something. It'll never be missed. Look, 
Chris 

"What's the Collection?" I asked after Gene had gone to 
bed. 

"Tell you what, " said Christopher, "I'll show it to you now. 
And you can learn about Mme. Calentura at the same time. 
Calentura." He drew her name out through his teeth as 
though it were dental floss. "Deon's sweetheart. " 

He led me through the dark paths behind the house, 
sweeping vines out of our way. 

"I'll tell you a story, David. When he was a boy, Deon 
wanted to marry Calentura, but," Christopher's mustache 
wiggled in glee, "the family hardly approved of that scheme. 
You see, it was farsighted. Always had been. Over a hundred 



years ago, the family decided it wanted American con- 
nections. As America's power grows, said my great- 
grandfather, so grow those fortunes connected with it. " 

Christopher looped his arm through mine and waltzed me 
down the avenue between the stately trees. 

"The rest of Europe would die an exquisite death," he 
said. "Becoming objets d'art, tucked between the statuettes 
and vases in American salons. Aristocrats are not merely 
admired, dear David, but used. So, if anyone was going to 
use aristocrats, my great-grandfather decided it would be 
other aristocrats. The Ds. Me. 

"My father and my great-grandfather both married Ameri- 
cans. Very rich. The daughter of a tuna fish king and a rubber 
heiress. To avoid being collected themselves, they traveled 
around the world collecting. Each took a continent, and they 
gathered everything! 

"My great-grandfather was the most successful. Of 
course, Deon and his broth- 
er, Prospero, also scav- 
enged, but their interests 
lay elsewhere. " 

As we passed a marble 
statue, Christopher patted a 
marble buttock. 

"Deon," he continued, 
"frustrated in his attempt to 
marry Calentura, did not 
hesitate to marry an at- 
tractive American girl who 
was in molasses. Lots of 
money. Very successful 
match. But as a consolation 
prize, he gave his dear 
Calentura all that my 
great-grandfather had 
amassed — which he had 
inherited. 

"Oh, it was a proper 
romantic gesture, but he 
was very canny. He had the 
Collection stored. In fact, 
hidden. So their romance did 
not end there, could not end 

there, because now Calentura owned the family Collection. 
When they couldn't retrieve it any other way, they de- 
manded that she be annexed somehow back to the Ds to 
assure the Collection to the D descendants. So Prospero, my 
grandfather, married Calentura. They spent one night to- 
gether and separated. Curiously enough, the match did have 
issue: my father, who, as I said, married another American. " 
He sighed, "Ah, you Americans. " 

The New York Post 
July 8, 1970 

The White House, never shy about telling young people how to 
behave, today gave a free lesson in etiquette to 700 it has invited 
to a party July 17 for Britain's Prince Charles and Princess 
Anne. 

The instructions, issued deadpan by Mrs. Connie Stuart, 
constitute a handbook of good fawn. 

Guests should curtsy or bow when presented to the royal couple. 
The royals, Mrs. Stuart confided to reporters, have asked some 
special friends to call them Charles and Anne. Tricia Nixon 
and Julie and David Eisenhower are expected to partake of this 
privilege. 




My sister had enclosed the article in an envelope with 
another on Gregory Finetemper of Neptune, South Dakota, 
who, after tracing a flying saucer to its landing field, be- 
friended the saucerians and visited Betelgeuse, Orion's 
follow-the-dot, where everyone drifted through stainless 
steel cities wearing translucent gowns and violet hoods 
which covered their Aardvark faces. 

I was leaning over the railing of a small bridge to watch the 
stream below trickle through the night. Christopher, leaning 
on the railing beside me, clicked his tongue twice with a 
slight sucking noise. 

"What do Americans dream of when they're watching a 
stream in a European garden?" he asked. "Of shoes and 
ships and sealing wax and cabbages and kings? My mother 
dreams mostly of kings and sometimes of sealing wax. By 
now, I suppose I'm more American than I would ever want to 
face up to. I wanted to be a motorcycle hoodlum when I was 
at Buxton. The blood gets 
thinner and thinner. I don't 
think I like my mother. " 

He smiled sweetly. His 
mouth was a straight line 
crimped up at the ends like 
the wing tips on fancy balsa 
wood airplanes. An Alec 
Guinness smile. 

Rogue. Rowdy. Rascal. 
Rat. You were plotting 
something for me. I could 
tell from that grin. I'd 747'd 
into a boiling pot. You bam- 
boozled me with Babylonian 
tales. And— alas — I was en- 
chanted with your des- 
perado princes and dowdy 
countesses. I wanted more. 
"Ah, well, my mother," 
Christopher continued. "The 
line goes on because of her. 
Deon's marriage had no 
issue, but his relationship 
with Calentura did. A 
girl. Aimee. " 
He gestured ahead. 

"Calentura's house," he said. "She's still alive. She visits 
Deon occasionally. But mostly she spends her time in the 
cellar going through the Collection. " 

We gazed at the house: large, with buttresses elbowing 
down to the ground like insect legs. It looked like a giant 
cockroach cresting a rise. 

"Two years after I was born, " Christopher said, "my father 
and Deon's bastard had a child. Helena. She's remarkable. I 
love her. You will, too, no doubt. Does all this confuse you?" 
He stopped at a stone bench. 

"Here," he said. "I'll draw you a diagram. Perhaps, you'll 
see it more easily if it's done out. It's not at all problematic. It's 
simply an inverted pyramid. Missing its top. " 

In the sand, he scratched the following with a stick: 



Great-grandfather = American wife 



American wife = 
(Aristide) ' — r- 



Deon 



Calentura = Prospero 



my father — American wife 
la Me 



He swished the stick through the air, making it hiss. Moses 
changing his staff into a snake. 



' "Now do you see?" he said. "Not at all complicated." 

He flung the stick into the bushes. 

"I suppose, " he said, "to make it all neat, I should screw 
Helena and have a sterile child that can commit suicide. What 
do you think?" 

He snorted. Laughter. 

"Here's a photo," he said, reaching into his wallet. 
"Calentura. Eighteen. Lovely, wasn't she?" 

Leaning over, he gazed at it with me. A locker room whiff. 
Vitalis on his neat long hair. 

"In a way," he said, "I envy them all. You see," he 
stretched out his arms, "interlocking gardens. The Ds didn't 
want her straying after Prospero left her. They were careful. 
The Collection must be assured to their descendants." He 
paused. "To Christopher. " 

He held a fist up to my face and slowly opened his fingers. 

"It's a spider web, David," he said, touching my cheek 
with his fingertips, "and we 
paralyze all you little flies 
that come too close. You 
better take care. " 

At the flight of moss- 
covered stone steps that led 
from the weedy garden up to 
the house, Christopher tore 
a browning geranium from a 
pot that sat on the wall. The 
clump of dirt tangled in the 
roots swayed and splashed 
waves of sand on the steps. 
He swung it over his head 
like a sling — David aiming at 
Goliath — and threw it into 
the darkness. 

"I can do that, you know, " 
he said. "It's all going to be 
mine. I used to play Indians 
here. Does that amuse 
you?" 

Giving a war-whoop, he 
bounded away like a 
madman. 

When I reached him, he was puffing by a gate covered with 
wrought iron flowers. He bowed low: 

"Welcome, my college chum, to lotus-land. " 

Inside the courtyard was a wilted garden around which ran 
a roofed walk. Just as Christopher stepped through a door 
into a sitting room — tapestry-covered settees along the wall, 
uncomfortable for sitting — a tall, thin woman with green hair 
floated in, her hands outstretched. She spoke in French. 

"I saw you coming, " she said. 

She kissed Christopher on the corner of his mouth— he 
had turned his head at the last moment — and smiled at me. 

"We've come to see Helena," Christopher said. 

"She's upstairs reading something by Mao Tse-tung," the 
woman said. "Do you think that's proper?" 

"Beat her," Christopher said. 

"Yes, " the woman said abstractly. "Will you wait?" 

She swept her hand toward a couch that stood poised 
below a huge painting of Victor Hugo on Jersey. 

In the French that was meant to exclude me — she also 
turned her back, showing me her baroque hairdo — she mur- 
mured, "Isn't it a beautiful evening?" 

Leaning against the doorway, Christopher answered in 
English, "Lovely, luv." 

"I'll get Helena for you," she said, finessing Christopher's 
English, staying pat in French. 




When she had left the room, Christopher threw himself 
onto the couch beneath the painting. 

"That was Aimee," he explained. "Deon and Calentura's 
bastard. She wants me to go to bed with her. But she's too 
old. And it would ruin the symmetry, wouldn't it. " 

I approached another couch that stood on bird-like legs and 
seemed about to stalk down the room like a tango dancer. 

"She grew up in America with a rich cousin, " Christopher 
said. "Mme. D wouldn't have her on the same continent 
then. When she was sixteen, she had an abortion and was 
canned from Spence. When she was seventeen, she had 
another abortion and was tossed out of Putney. When she 
was eighteen, she tried to elope with a sailor and was thrown 
out of some anthroposophical school in upstate New York. 
When she was twenty, she had an affair with a member of the 
Harvard English department and was thrown out of RadclifJe. 
She lived in Cambridge for the next three years, pretending 
for Deon's sake that she 
was still in school. He 
showed up at her graduation 
and when they didn't call 
her name, he stood up in 
the audience and demanded 
an explanation. He was 
asked to leave the cere- 
monies. Aimee was in 
tears. He vanished into. 
Southeast Asia for two 
years and never spoke to 
Aimee again. In Cambridge 
her name was 'Thunder- 
Thighs. '" He did a grind and 
a double-bump. "Boom- 
boom!" 

"She's lived here ever 
since," he continued. "Once 
a year, for three weeks she 
goes to New York to get 
laid — by anyone and any- 
thing she can get her legs 
around. You can find her on 
west forty-ninth street, up 
the block from Sam 
Goody's. Bargain prices." 

A young woman, dressed in a long yellow chemise, with 
yellower giraffes galloping into and out of the pleats as she 
moved, came into the room. Christopher crossed to her. She 
kissed his forehead. He turned to me, beaming. 

She wore black dancing shoes with white ribbed stockings. 
Circling me, her head tipped to one side, she appraised me 
with a half-smile. 
"Do I pass?" I asked. In English. 

"Pass?" she repeated. Her eyelids rose from their sleepy 
droop and her cautious irises opened. 

Christopher introduced us. She extended her hand. Her 
skin was like dry ice. i was afraid our palms would fuse, her 
touch was so cold. 

"I'm pleased to meet you," she said in ghostile French. 
Her voice grew thoms. "Are you one of Christopher's actor 
friends?" 
"No." 

"Oh? I thought you were. He speaks a great deal about his 
actor friends. " 

She smiled at him as though she expected some explana- 
tion for my presence. When he said nothing, she turned her 
back on us and wandered into the garden. 
"What a pretty night, " she said. 
The garden, like the grounds around the house, were lit 



eccentrically with colored floodlights. Gaudy and cheap. 
Christmas tree bulbs were strung along trees and bushes. 

"Aimee's idea, " Christopher had said. "She loves amuse- 
ment parks and carnivals. She claims a circus strong man 
once asked her to marry him, but she was afraid she'd be too 
delicate for him in bed. She says. Every so often Mme. D 
sends one of her men over with a rifle to shoot out the lights. 
Then, Aimee will appear at one of Mme. D's stately dinners 
in pink boas and see-through knits. Terrible escalation. 
Mme. D bought a Medici ring and keeps it filled with rat 
poison. Someday, she'll welcome Aimee to her dinner with a 
special wine. " 

Helena came back from the garden carrying a water lily 
she had plucked from the pond. 

"I had them put in last week," she said in English. "Do you 
think they'll die?" She handed me the flower. "I think they will. 
That's why I picked it. Don't you think it's a shame for things 
to die?" she asked me. 

"Yes, " I said. 

I glanced at Christopher. 
Was she mad? 

Christopher was leaning 
forward, pretending to listen 
seriously. 

"I think it's better to kill 
something," she continued 
her lecture. Dr. Mortus be- 
fore the abecedarians of 
death. "Rather than letting it 
die itself because then it has a 
reason for dying. Otherwise, 
it's very stupid, I think. Oh, 
Chris, I've been exploring 
the cellar again. Do you want 
to see what I found? Would 
you like to come?" she asked 
me. 

"Yes," I said. 

I didn't want to be left 
alone in that house. 

I put the flower on the 
chair. She crossed the room 
and picked up the flower. 

"This way, " she said. 

"Now, you'll see the famous D Collection," Christopher 
said, "admired by kings and queens! Everything. Great- 
grandfather's. Prospero's. Deon's. Father's. All. Soon, I sup- 
pose, I'll be adding to it. I've got to make up for the little my 
Dad did. His collecting life was short. He died, David, on his 
way to America to begin collecting there. That would almost 
fill out the Collection. Great-grandpa collected in Africa. 
Grandpa collected in the Middle East. Deon collected in the 
Far East. He tripped while climbing a Burmese temple and fell 
down five hundred steps. Aimee thinks he did it on purpose. 
To get back at her for the humiliation he suffered at Harvard. 
To make her feel guilty. And to avoid talking to her. She reads 
to him sometimes. Mostly from Marx. Which he loathes. He 
always goes into a decline afterwards." 

"Father never reached America," Helena explained. "He 
died on the boat. " 

"He was going over with Aimee who was on her way for her 
yearly screwing, " Christopher said. 

Helena stiffened. 

"My mother likes to keep up with the theaters in New 
York, " she said. "My mother stored him in the stateroom with 
ice-packs all over his body. She refused to give him up. She 
was afraid they'd toss him overboard. " 

"Burial at sea, " explained Christopher. "Every day Aimee 




sat by him fondling his rigor-mortised cock. That doesn't 
sound like a lot of fun, but she was transported by it It's all 
pretty strange. After Helena was bom, Dad wouldn't sleep 
with Aimee anymore. He decided it was immoral. But they 
used to make out a lot. " 

The walls of the stairway were frescoed with life-sized 
monks, carrying candles before their hooded faces. In the 
cellar, Christopher explained, "Everything except what fur- 
nishes the two houses is down here. " 

All along the walls were boxes and chests, pieces of furni- 
ture on blocks and covered with shadowy sheets. Crates 
formed aisles along which we squeezed. 
Helena whispered, "See what I found!" 
She unsnapped the bottom hinge of a box, asked me to 
unsnap the top, which I did. The cover swung open. 

Inside, paintings were standing on their sides between 
wooden runners to prevent their faces from touching. Tug- 
ging at one painting, she slid 
it out. Christopher stood it 
against the side of the box. 

In the swinging light, I 
recognized the girl in the 
portrait from the photograph 
Christopher had shown me 
earlier, only here Calentura 
was twenty-two, not eigh- 
teen, and she looked like 
Helena. Long blond hair and 
green eyes, white skin, lips 
too red. 

"It's beautiful," Christo- 
pher said. "She's beautiful." 
While I watched Helena 
touch her palm against the 
painted face, I became 
aware of a presence behind 
me. I swung around to see 
an old woman in the dark 
archway step back from my 
gaze. She was stooped. In 
the light, her skin, as white 
as the skin in the portrait, 
looked like a plaster mask. 
And it was covered with streaks and blue nodes. Purple 
blotches rimmed her eyes. She was bald. The skin on her 
head was pulled back so tightly her face looked like a skull. 

"Calentura," Christopher said. "I'd introduce you, but she 
doesn't like to meet people. " 

Helena pushed the painting into its case and swung closed 
the door. 

Later that night, as Christopher and I walked back to the 
other house, I said: 
"She's beautiful. " 

"Helena?" said Christopher. "I'm glad you think so. She 
asked me to give you this." 
He handed me a note, which said: 

Since you're coming to my room tonight, I thought I'd better 
giveyou directions. 

And she explained where her room was. 
"What does she say?" Christopher asked. 
"She wants to know how long I'm staying, " I lied. 
"Are you going to her room?" he asked. 
"Are you pimping for her?" 
"In a way, " he said. "In a way. " 

To be concluded next issue © 



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HEAVY METAL 87 




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TO 56 CONTWUEPf'ANP ClARlFED) NEXT \9SUB... 



HEAVY METAL 8 



PRESetJTtSIG.,.THO CUTE LITTLE EXTRATERReSTKIAL. CREATURES TALKIMG ABOUT. . . 

COLLECTOR'S ITEMS 




#2/MAY 77: Russian astronauts, 
"Conquering Armies," the ultimate 
rock festival, and more. 

#3/JUNE 77: Macedo's "Rock- 
blitz," highly praised "Shells," be- 
ginning of Davis's "World Apart," 
Moebius, Corben. Bode, more. 

#4/JULY *77:Lots of Moebius: 
"Arzach," "The Long Tomorrow"; 
conclusion of "Sunpot." 

#5/AUGUST 77: "Polonius" be- 
gins, "The Long Tomorrow" con- 
cludes, and "World Apart" and 
"Den" continue. 

#6/SEPTEMBEH '77: Roger 
Zelazny has a short story, and 
Moebius, a space opera; plus more 
"World Apart," "Den," and 
"Polonius," 

#7/OCTOBER '77: Fiction by 
Theodore Sturgeon, Moebius's "Air- 
tight Garage," "Den" and "Polo- 
nius" back again. 

#8/NOVEMBER 77: New Harlan 
Ellison fiction, 9 color pages by 
Moebius and Rimbaud, conclusions 
for "Polonius" and "World Apart." 

#9/DECEMBER '77: Extra pages 
for the complete "Vuzz," by Druillet, 
"Fortune's Fool," by Chaykin and 
Wein, plus full-color Corben, 
Macedo, Claveloux, and Moebius. 

#10/JANUARY 78: Morrow illus- 
trates Zelazny, Lob and Pichard up- 
date Ulysses, "Conquering Armies" 

concludes, "Den" continues. 

#11 /FEBRUARY 78: New adven- 
tures of "Barbarella," cover and 
center spread by Nino, plus Moebius 
and Corben. 



#12/MARCH 78: Gray Morrows 
swashbuckling "Orion" debuts; 
more "Barbarella," "Urm," and 
"Den." 

#13/APRIL 78: Our 1st anniver- 
sary issue! A 30-page insert from 
"Paradise 9." "Barbarella" gives 
birth, while "Den" wraps it up. 

#14/MAY 78: "Urm the Mad" 
waves bye-bye, but "Orion" and 
"Barbarella" continue, and Alex 
Nino tips his hat. 

#15/ JUNE 78: Corben introduces 
Shahrazad. Sturgeon's classic 
"More Than Human" is illustrated, 
more "Barbarella," and the origins 
of "Heilman." 

#16/JULY 78: A happy ending for 
"Barbarella," a sad ending for 
"1996," resumption of Druillet's 
"Gail," more "Heilman," "Orion," 
"More Than Human," and Corben's 
"Arabian Nights." 



#23/FEBRUARY 79: "Galactic 
Geographic," "Starcrown," Cor- 
ben's "Sindbad," McKie's "So 
Beautiful and So Dangerous," plus 
Moebius, Bilal, and Macedo. 

#24/MARCH 79: Twenty pages of 
Chaykin illustrating Bester's "The 
Stars My Destination," "Starcrown" 
II, and Ellison's late show. 



#18/SEPTEMBER 78: SORRY — 
SOLD OUT! 

#19/OCTOBER 78: "Exterminator 
17," Ellison's illustrated "Glass 
Goblin, " debut of McKie's "So Beau- 
tiful and So Dangerous." 

#20/NOVEMBER '78: Twenty 
pages of the Delany/Chaykin "Em- 
pire," more "Sindbad," "Extermin- 
ator," Major Grubert, "Heilman." 

#21 /DECEMBER 78: The stock- 
ing's full with "Orion," Kirchner's 
"Tarot," and 12 beautiful pages of 
Moebius. 

#22/JANUARY 79: Trina debuts 
and Druillet concludes "Gail," plus 
McKie and Corben. 



#26/MAY 79: It's all-American (ex- 
cept for Druillet's "Dancin' " and a 
Proust joke): 15 entries including 
Corben, Morrow, the illustrated 
"Alien." 

#27/JUNE 79: SORRY — SOLD 
OUT! 

#28/JULY 79: Bodes "Zooks" 
premieres, Corben's "Sindbad" con- 
cludes. Morrow and Moebius con- 
tinue, Mike Hinge debuts. 

#29/AUGUST 79:Caza steals 
show with "New Ark City," plus 
Mayerik, Suydam, "Galactic Geo- 
graphic," Bode, more. 

#30/SEPTEMBER 79: "Elric," 
"Buck Rogers," a lizard named 
"Elvis," and "Little Red V-3." along- 
side Montellier and Moebius. 

#31/OCTOBER 79: A Halloween 

tribute to H. P. Lovecraft, with 
Moebius, Breccia, Druillet, Suydam. 

#32/NOVEMBER 79: Corben's 

"Rowlf," Bode's "Zooks," Brunner's 
"Elric," Chaykin's "The Stars My 
Destination," Moebius, and more. 

#33 /DEC EMBER 79: A Christmas 
package from Caza, Corben, Ko- 
foed. Suydam, Stiles. Trina, 
Moebius, and Ellison, plus 
"Gnomes" and "Giants." 



#3S/FEBRUARY '80: An eerie 
Couratin cover adorns this issue. 
Corben's "The Beast of Wolfton" 
begins, McKie experiments with the 
Air Pump, and we join Matt Howarth 
on a crazed acid trip. 

#36/MARCH '80: Why did "The 
Crevasse" take Jeannette? Read 
the Schuiten strip! Plus: Corben, 
Matena, Moebius, and Lee Marrs- 

#37/APRIL '80: Our 3rd anniver- 
sary issue — 32 pages of "Champa- 
kou" in living color, final installment 
of Moebius's "Airtight Garage," plus 
Caza, Bilal, Howarth, Corben, 
Bode — and more! 

#38/MAY '80: Does the Supreme 
Alchemist exist? Will Axle ever find 
out? Will "Champakou" reach the 
Doll of Jade? Will Joe strike out with 
the alien Marilyn, too? 

#39/JUNE '80: 'Champakou" 
meets his fate, while "Captain 
Sternn" saves the day. And it's the 
Flying Wallendas vs. Earth! 

#40/JULY '80: "The Alchemist 
Supreme" continues; Axle learns 
truth about sidekick Musky. Bilal's 
"Progress!" begins, and Moebius 
returns with "Shore Leave." 

#41/AUGUST '80: Druillet returns 
with "Salammbo" while Moebius 
concludes "Shore Leave" (and is 
interviewed). Bilal continues 
"Progress!" 

#42/SEPTEMBER '80: "The Al- 
chemist Supreme" concludes while 
Bilal's "Progress!" picks up steam. 
Ernie Colon, Paul Kirchner, Leo Dur- 
anona contribute nifty shorts, while 
"Rock Opera" gets stranger. 



#44/NOVEMBER '80: Cover by 
Hajime Sorayama. Claveloux, Moe- 
bius, Kaluta, Springett, and Bilal 
inside. 

#45/DECEMBER '80: SORRY- 
SOLD OUT! 



#48/MARCH '81: "Tex Arcana," 
John Findley's epic, begins. "What 
Is Reality, Papa?" and "The Ambas- 
sador of the Shadows" continue; 
Druillet's interpretation of Flaubert's 
Salammbo ends. Plus, Harlan Elli- 
son's ever timely essay on violence 
in America. 

#49/ APRIL '81: Corben's 'Blood- 
star," Gimenez's "Good-bye, Sol- 
dier!," Harry North's "Stories from 
London," and an interview with Julio 
Ribera. 

#50/MAY '81: Premiers of Chay- 
kin's "Cody Starbuck" and Bilal's 
"The Immortals' Fete!" Plus: Suy- 
dam's "The Toll Bridge" and William 
S. Burroughs on immortality. 

#51/JUNE '81:The 1st part of the 
Richard Corben interview, Jim Ster- 
anko's adaptation of Outland pre- 



mieres, Howarth's "Changes" winds 
up. Plus: Caza, Chaykin, Crepax, 
and Workman! 



#56/NOVEMBER '81: Jeronaton's 
"Egg of the World," Jeff Jones. 
Segrelles, and Bilal all frame the art 
of Leo and Diane Dillon beautifully. 

#57/DECEMBER '61: SORRY- 
SOLD OUT! 

#58/JANUARY '82: Our "Happy 
Future*' issue. Includes Arno, Lou- 
stal, Voss, He, and Gillon; and "The 
Autonomous Man," all surrounded 
by Chaykin and Simonson, Segrel- 
les, and Steranko. 

#59/FEBRUARY '82: The further 
adventures of John Difool in "The 
Incal Light." Wein and Chaykin's 
"Gideon Faust" gets going — again. 
Plus Fernandez, Jones, Schuiten. 

#60/MARCH '82: 2nd Special Rock 
Issub featuring Dick Matena's "A 
Life in the Day," a surrealistic 
look at the life of John Lennon. Luis 
Garcia's "Nova 2" begins. Plus 
"Mercenary," "Den," "Rock Opera." 
etc. 

#61/APRIL '82:5th anniversary 
issue offers a variety of material. 
What with Claveloux, Druillet, Moeb- 
ius, Bilal, and an essay on J.G. Bal- 
lard, you'll be busy until our 6th! 

#62/MAY '82: The 1st part of David 
Black's "Third Sexual Revolution." 
"The Art of De Es Schwertberger. " 
Plus: "Sixteen and Vanilla" by Ted 
White and Val Lakey. 

#63/JUNE '82: Fantastic Cities 
issue, with artists Voss, Caza, Sci- 
befli, and R. Crumb, all surrounded 
by regulars: Druillet, Moebius, 
Schuiten, and Fernandez. 

#64/JULY '82:Marcele and 
Lacome's strange "Life at the 
Circus" and pages from Corben's 
Flights into Fantasy. Plus Jones, 
Garcia, and Druillet. 

#65/AUGUST '82: Jones and 
Wrightson's "Freak Show" and Pisu 
and Manara's "The Ape." Plus the 
finale of "The Incal Light" by Moe- 
bius and Jodorowsky. 

#66/SEPTEMBER '82: Hecht s 
"Music-Video Interface," Lupoff's 
"Barsoom!" and Hinge's "Object." 
Plus our regulars: Bilal, Fernandez, 
Kierkegaard. 

#67/OCTOBER '82: You'll have 
Scary Dreams after reading our 
special horror section. Everything 
from Eddie Poe to the weirdest 
phobias possible. Don't read it 
alone! P.S.: Last pari of Black's 
"Third Sexual Revolution." 

#68/NOVEMBER '82: Pari 1 of 
Kaluta's "Starstruck." Findley's "Tex 
Arcana" continues as does "Den II" 
and Druillet's "Yragael." Plus: a 



#69/DECEMBER '82: A Will Stone 
Gallery, the return of Suydam's 
"Mudwog," and Mark Fisher's 
"Amino Men." Plus Corben, Fernan- 
dez, and Kierkegaard. 

#70/JANUARY '83: The strange 
conclusion to Wrightson's "Freak 
Show," a look at The Dark Crystal. 
and regulars Manara, Corben, Fer- 
nandez, etc. 

#71/FEBRUARY '83: The making 
of the film The Entity, Kim Deitch's 
Eating Raoul, and regulars Corben, 
Kaluta, Crepax, etc. 

#72/MARCH '83: We bid a fond 

farewell to Den and Kath, and a 
warm welcome to Bilal's "City that 
Didn't Exist." A Gallery on Robert 
Williams, plus Manara, Kaluta and 
more. 

#73/APRIL '83: Moebius's "The 
Twinkle in Fildegar's Eye," and 
Sauri's "The Odyssey," along with 
Kaluta, Crepax, and Workman. 

#74/MAY '83: Kaluta and Lee's 
stagestruck "Starstruck," "Marlow- 
skitz" the robotic detective, and the 
conclusion of Manara and Pisu's 
"The Ape." 

#75/JUNE '83: Corben's 
"Doomscult," the end of Crepax's 
"The Man from Harlem," and a peek 
at the 3-D science fiction thriller, 
Spacehurtter. 

#76/JULY '83: Liberatore's 
"Ranxerox," the end of Kaiula's 
"Starstruck" (for the time being), an 
interview with Dan O'Bannon and a 
glimpse at Ray Bradbury's Dinosaur 
Tales. 

#77/AUGUST '83: Arno and 
Jodorowsky's "The Small Earth- 
worm" debuts, Gimenez's "A Matter 
of Time" appears, and Captain 
Beefheart is interviewed, all behind 
a beautiful Greg Hildebrandt cover. 

#78/SEPTEMBER '83: An exclu- 
sive interview with Francis Ford 
Coppola! Plus a Gallery look at the 
art of Rowena Morrill and the con- 
clusions of "Zora" and "The City 
lhat Didn't Exist." 

#79/OCTOBER '83: Timothy 
Leary! Enki Bilal! Pepe Moreno! 
Walter Hill! Rocky and Builwinkle!?! 
A great issue! 

#80/NOVEMBER '83: A spirited 
talk with Will Eisner, along with a 
Spirit story. Plus Crepax's 
"Valentina the Pirate." Enjoy. 

#81/DECEMBER '83: Ranxerox 
bows out. Valentina comes on 
Strong. Artist Liberatore is inter- 
viewed. Lots more! 



HEttf 



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9 


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3 


BK8^f~^Tn! 


a 





The ones 
that Marty 
and I saw 
were just 
wimpy little 
things, anyway. 



Why are you so upset 
about these dragons , 
Pixelle? 






[It's a duh- 
lit's a duh- 



DragonslHaw — 
pull the other 
one ! 



'i&i 



mm s 




I Well , don' t just stand 
I there .knucklehead — 
I pull out your sword 
I and kill it! 




Great going! 


^T^r - 




"~"~^^ ■ a." JM 






HL^jfl 




[ i H 




W AH 


Listen, a dragon is just a sym"bol of 
man's fear of the unknown, right? So 


let's use psychology on 


him. . .